Lt'          <T 

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IRVINE 


IE  AND   MIRANDY   SEND   A   PRES 
ENT. 


re've  just  sent  off  our  present,  me  and 
my  wife,  Mirandy, 

even  Dorking  fowls,  and  we'll  bet  they'll 
come  in  handy; 

he  rooster  is  a  treasure  for  giving  day 
light  warning— 

[irandy  named  him  "Robinson,"  'cause 
he  crew  so,  in  the  morning! 

he  six  Dorking  hens  are  layers,  and  we 

are  glad   to   say 
hey   are    "geared   up    to    the   speed"   of 

one  egg  apiece,  each  day; 
hat's  forty-two  a  week,  you  know,  and 

Lent  is  close  at  hand, 
nd   they  just  lay  and  cackle  in  a  way 

"to  beat  the  band!" 

iey*ll  fill  your  hearts  chock  full  of  Joy 

as  on  life's  path  you  jog, 
id  help  to  fill  that  new  "Punch  Bowl" 

with  the  very  best  egg  nog; 
>n't   let   those   women   scare   you   'bout 

that,  punch  bowl,   by-the-by; 
>r  there's  lot  of  'em  who  long  to  taste 

it's  contents — "on  the  sly!" 

»lks  are  spending  lots  and  lots  of  stuff 

that  will  only  "kick  around — " 
it  these  chickens  you  can  turn  out  upon 

the  "White  House  Ground," 
here  they'll  attend  to  business,  laying 

eggs  enough  for  two, 
.d  "scratch  'round  for  a  living,"  like  so 

many  of  us  do! 

Id  Rob"   will  'scort  his  wives  around 

looking  mighty  fine  and  cute, 

th    feelings    very    much    akin    to  our 

"much  married  Smoot"— 

d  when  you  hear  'em  cackle,  ere  their 

joyous  notes  have   ceased, 

u  can  bet  your  bottom  dollar  that  your 

capital's    increased! 

nehow  our  invitation  has  given  us  the 

slip— 

11,  perhaps  we  are  not  "Young"  enough 

to  make  the  eastern  trip; 

we  care  not  where  they  live,  In  farm 
house  or  in  palace. 

•e's  wishing  lots  of  happiness  to  "our 
Nicholas  and  Alice!" 

— Tac  Hussey. 


HOME   ;F 0:R    THE 


Tacitus   Musscy   and   Wife   Paid    Unus 
ual  Tribute  i 

-Hut--- 

' 
:d  dollars 

no  children  01  , 

'den 

Mr.    Hussey    v\ ;, 

H polls    Jo 

leading     primi; 

For    man 

of    the      ' 
club. 

•id,    and    ' 

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TARRY 
BY  THE  STUFF 

It'a  nice  to  go  away,  sometimes,  on  this 

round  earth    to   ro^ru  ».   .«. 

To  see  the  -world  at  close:    range;   but 

it's  nicer  to  come  home  * 
And  meet  the  Jtrtends  you  love  aV.w 

and  grasp  the  friendly  hand  xx 

And  tell  of  your  experiences  while  In  'a 

foreign  land! 

It's  fun  to  plow  the.  ocean  and  watch,  do 

rolling  sea  I 

Come  tumbling  in  upon  your  ship—  while 

you're  safe  as  safe  can  be; 
And  see  the  whales  a-spouting  amid  the 

ocean's  foam. 
Remembering   then   how   you   will  spout 

when  you  get  safely  home! 

And  "Old  Glory"  at  the  masthead,  with 

stripes  and  stars  a-gleam, 
Waving  her  protection  o'er  you,  whether 

you  wake  or  dream! 
Bringing  thoughts   that  you  are  resting 

"in   the  hollow  of  His  hand," 
'And  that  "God  is  on  the  ocean,  just  the 

same  as  on  the  land!" 

Then  some  have  climbed  the  mountains 

in  the  east  and  in  the  west; 
Far/  far   above  our   Iowa—  the   land   we 

love  'the  best! 
There  they>see  in  mem'ry's  vision  a  land 

of  corn  and  showers, 
With   her   valleys    filled    with   grain,    In 

this  fruitful  land  of  ours! 

I 
We  have  a  warm,  a  welcoming  hand  for 

each  returning  friend— 
'Homecomings"    are    a    splendid    thing— 

and  may   they  never  end. 
"nir  church  has  been   "quite    long"     on 

Macl^s,    as    perhaps   you     may     have 

seen— 
IcLeod.  McGill,  and  last  of  all,  our  well 

beloved  ZfrcKean! 

<re're  going  to  make  him  quite  content' 

by  "staying  up  hie  -hands"— 
ot     a     "holdup,"     i  it     a 

strength'ning  of  church 
it  we  wish  to  give  credit  to 

stayed  at  home; 
)r  lack  of  cash,  it  may  be,  or  with  no 

desire  to  roam. 


King  David  gave  expression  to  a  senti 
ment  that's  good— 

Though  in  these  days  of  grabbing,  is 
not  well  understood;  , 

He  told  his  ancient  warriors  that  It  was 
all  right  enough 

To  share  the  spoils  alike  with  those  "who 
tarried  by  the  stuff!" 

So  I'm  going  to  put  in  a  rhyming  plea 

for  our  quitters,   true  and  leal, 
Who  have  quilted  every  Wednesday— and 

never  missed  a  meal; 
The  weather  was  too  hot  sometimes;  but 

they  won't  take  a  bluff; 
So    they    are    entitled    to    their    share   of 

"spoils"  for  "tarying  by  the  stuff!" 


Sure,   credits    should    be    given    where- 

ev'r  a  credit's  due — 
I  think  it  keeps  a  church   harmonious 

and   much  alive — don't  you? 
So  when   the  credit  marks  are  made   for 

work   that's  hard  and   tough. 
Some   long   marks   should    be   given    to 

these  "tarriers  by  the  stuff!" 

If    good    King    David    were    alive — and 

belonged   to   Central  church, 
I    don't    believe    that    he    would    leave 

these-  quilters  in   the   lurch; 
For   us   shirking,      sniveling     warriors, 

doa't   believe   he'd   care   a   pinch   of 
snuff; 
But    would    "come    down    handsomely" 

for  these  tarriers  by  the  stuff!" 

— TACTITUS  HL'SSKY. 
The  above  poe.m  was  read  itt  a  re 
ception  given  in  honor  of  Rev.  F.  C. 
McKean  at  the  Central  Presbyterian 
church  by  Tacitus  Hussey,  special 
writer  He  was  encored  and  in  re 
sponse  gave  "The  Saw  That  Does  Not 
Wabble,"  I 


THEJUVER  BEND 

....AND  .... 

OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

TACITUS      H.USSEY 


ILLUSTRATED. 


DES   MOINES,    IOWA: 

CARTER    &    HUSSEY,    PRINTERS. 

18%. 


3S/S 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1896, 

By  TACITUS  HUSSEY, 
In  the  office  of   the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


This  Volume  will  be  sent,  prepaid,  to  any  address 

on  receipt  of  $1.00. 
TACITUS  HUSSEY,   DES  MOINES,   IOWA. 


CONTENTS. 

Frontispiece, 2 

Illustrations, 10 

Proem, 11 

Dedicatory, 13 

The   River  Bend 17 

To   Robin   Redbreast 20 

The   Reason   Why,           .        . 21 

The  Hoosier  Nectar, 22 

The  Summer's  Farewell, 24 

Disillusion, 25 

High   Lights, .26 

When  the   Bloom   Is  on  the  Corn,    .         *       .        .        .        .  28 

Chrysanthemum, 30 

Our  Hoosier  State,      .                31 

In   Memory  of  J.   Addison   Hepburn, 32 

My  Lady's  Violin,       .        .        .                .  '     .        .        .        .  33 

June, 35 

Memory's  Cadence,      . 36 

Till   Death   Do   Us   Part,         .        .        ...        .        .        .42 

Junior  Hymn, 43 

The  First  Snow  of  Winter,    .        . 44 

Early  Called,        .        ...        .       '.        .  '     .        .        .        .  45 

When  the  Mists   Have   Passed,      .        .                ;        .        '.        .  46 

To   Henry  Watterson, .  47 

The  Old   Hawkeye  Band,       .  .        ,        .'      .        .48 

The   Friend   in   Need,          .        .       ..        .        .        .. '     .        .  50 

Vernal    Longings,  .        .        .        .        ;        .        .        .        .54 

7 


Easter  Day 56 

A  Dream. 57 

The  Family  Thought. 59 

General  James  M.  Tuttle. 60 

In  Memociam 62 

July 63 

To  Margaret 64 

Free  Currency. 65 

Christmas  Bells 67 

You  Know  It. 70 

Misapprehension, 71 

Thanksgiving  Suggestion. 72 

Lovely  May 74 

The  Rood  — 1802,            75 

The  Sunday  School's  Farewell 77 

Precaution 79 

The  Kickers  Funeral, 80 

Return  of  the  Prodigals. 82 

America's  Crown. 87 

To  a  November  Dandelion.            88 

A   >.—->-.            89 

Memory's  Song, 90 

Hoosier  Echoes, 91 

Rising  Genius. 93 

Jubilee  Year. 94 

A  Spring  Beauty. 96 

The  Good  Old  Times 99 

Easter  Morning 101 

Christmas. 102 

The  Poet's  Plea. 103 

Spring. 105 

Goin?  to  Farmin" 106 

Tears  Mingled, 108 

Columbus  Day,        , .        .  109 

The  Tariff.   ...  Ill 


Christmas  Carol,      .        .        .        , 

Would  Like  Another  Chance, 

The  Old  Rain  Barrel. 

Prosperity. 

The  Temple  Beautiful 

Which? 

A  Thanksgiving  Toast          ,        .        

The  Round  Up, 

The  Homesick  Hooskr, 

The  Under  Cat, 

Plain  Jane  and  Me. 

October, 

The  World's  Fair  Poem, 

The  Reluctant  Idea, 

The  Race  at  Cherokee, 

Forty  Years  in  Iowa, 

She  Had, 

Hoosier  Recollections, 

September, 

Christmas  Doings, 

h'r;  nsideiati   n. ~.-x 

The  Poet  of  the  Future, 149 

Cause  and  Effect, 151 

A  River  Idvl,  155 


POEMS    ILLUSTRATED. 

The   River   Bend,  Photos,    H     N.    Little,  Zeese  &  Sons,  Engravers, 

The  Flood, 

The   Friend   in   Need,  " 

Spring   Beauty, 

My    Lady's  Violin,  "         F.  W.  Webster, 

Frontispiece,   (The  Author.)        " 

Easter   Day,  Illustration,   Jennie   Girton,    Waterloo,   Iowa, 

Zeese  &  Sons,  Engravers. 

Dedicatory,  Photo,   Ideal   Portrait   Co., 

Forty   Years   in    Iowa,  (Snap  Shot,)    F.    H.    Luthe, 

Christmas   Bells,  Illustrations,  Clara  Hendricks,  Star    Engraving  Co. 

Homesick   Hoosier, 
Christmas  Carol 
Return  of  the  Prodigals, 

The   press  work  on  this  book  was  done   by   courtesy  of  the   Kenyon    Printing  and 
Manufacturing   Company. 


PROEM. 

1   saw  a  spider  spin  a  slender  thread, 

From   his  small   spinaret,  floating  free  ; 
How   busily   he  wrought,   as  on   it  sped  — 

I  stood  and  wondered  what  his  aim  could  be. 

And  from   his  lowly  workshop  on  the  ground, 
Breeze-wafted,   his  tiny  line  rose  higher, 

And,   fast'ning  to  a  loftier  shrub,   he  found 
By  climbing,   he  could  win   his  heart's  desire. 

Then,  from   the  higher  vantage  ground,   spun   he, 
A  longer  thread,   which   soared   high   in   the  air, 

And,   wind-directed,   touched  a  tall  oak  tree, 
Which   caught  it  tenderly,   and   held   it  there. 

So,   like  the  spider,   I   have  flung  some  lines 
Out  on  an   unknown  world,   maybe,   for  naught ; 

But  trembling,  hope  that  —  if  your  heart  inclines  — 
You'll   be  the  Oak,   on  which  they've  firmly  caught  ! 


MftS.    JENNIE    CLEMENT    HUSSEY. 


DEDICATORY. 

To  her,   who  through   life's  sun  and 
shade, 

In  summer's  heat,  in  winter's  cold, 
Since   paths  together  have  been   laid 

To  walk,  until   Life's  tale  is  told  ; 
To  her,  the  true  and  loving  wife, 

Whose    presence    brightened    many 

a  mile 
Upon   the  tortuous  way  of  life, 

Who  always  met  me  with  a  smile. 


The  storm   which   swept  Life's  ocean,   where 

Our  little  bark,   at  anchor  lay, 
Oft  rudely   stirred  the  waters  there, 

In  our  snug  harbor,   "  Sunshine   Bay." 
And   clouds,   which  o'er  our  pathway  wept, 

Their  silver  lining  showed,  the  while  ; 
And  shimmering  through,   the  sunshine  crept, 

Whene'er  she   met  me  with   a  smile. 


So,   all  along  the  milestone's  mark, 
Which   separates  the  weary  years, 

The  pilgrims  trudge,  in   light  or  dark, 
Beset  without,   within,   with  fears ; 

But  oh  !  the  cloud-rifts  on   the  way, 
Which   many  dreary  hours  beguile, 

If  he,   at  journey's  end,   can  say : 

"  She  always   met    me  with  a  smile  ! 

13 


THE    RIVER    BEND. 

What    joy,   upon  the  dancing  stream, 
Under  the  sweeping  paddle's  play, 

'Neath  tinted   sky  from   sunset's  gleam, 

Where  water-lilies   lie  and  dream, 

Awaiting  the  soft  touch   of    day, — 

To  voyage   in   a  light  canoe, 

In   which   there's  onlv  room  for  two! 


18  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

Where  purling  streams  wind   in   and   out. 
In  wastefulness  and   wanton  glee, 

Where  willows  dip  their  thirsty  boughs, 

And   lovers  'change  undying  vows 

Beneath  the  well   known  trysting  tree, 

We  linger  in   our  light  canoe, 

In   which   there's  only  room   for  two ! 

The  robin   sings;    or  sweet  brown  thrush 
On  topmost  bough   in  evening  air, 

With   heaving  breast  and  swelling  throat 

Pours  out  his  heart  with   every  note ; 
The  while,   we  sit  in   silence  there, 

Concealed  from  the   musician's  view, 
Entranced,   within   the   light  canoe: 

Or  idly  float,   'neath  silent  stars, 

While  sprinkled  thickly  on  the  stream 

Their  bright  reflected  faces  show; 

With  stars  above  and   stars  below, 
It  all   seems  like  a  passing  dream. 

With  thoughts  too  deep  for  words,   we  two 
Sit  voiceless,   in   our  light  canoe! 

Oh,   Golden   Silence !    When   two   hearts 
Are  throbbing  with   responsive  beat ! 
When   trembling  on   the   lips  are   hung 
The  sweetest  words  of  mortal  tongue, 

Which   lovers  falt'ringly  repeat: 
"  I    love  you!"    who  would   not  be  true 
To  plighted  troth   in   light  canoe? 


THE    KIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


19 


Dear  River  Bend,   with   light  and  shade ! 

With  fringed  willows  by  the  score, 
Festooned  with  wild  grape  blossoms  sweet, 
While  lipping  waves  thy  name  repeat 

In  whispered  ripples   'long  the  shore ; 
Sad  day,   when   we  shall   bid  adieu 

To  thee,   and  to  our  swift  canoe  ! 

And  when   down   Life's  long  stream   we  glide 
To  where  Styx'   waters  darkly  roll, 

And   meet  old  Charon,  gaunt  and  grim, 

To  his  demandings  say  to  him  : 
"  Insist  not  on   our  paying  toll ; 

For,   if  it's  just  the  same  to  you, 

We'll   cross  o'er  in   our  staunch  canoe !  " 


20  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

TO    ROBIN    REDBREAST. 

Old  Winter,   thou  art  going  ! 

Sayest  thou   so,   thou   bird   with   breast  of  fiery   red  ; 
Speakest  thou   as  a   prophet,   or  dost  thou   only  guess  ? 

Art  thou,   then,   so   knowing? 

There   may  be  frosts  and   snows 
Ere  the  tongues  of  the   little  rills  are   loosed  again, 
And  they  joy  to  run  the  race  with  rivers  to  the  sea ; 

Who  but  the  prophet,   knows  ? 

When   autumn   leaves  grew   dry 
And  thou  and  thy   mates  looked   on   each   other, 
Saying  in   a    language   plainly   understood  : 
"  Why  sit  we  here  and  die, 

"  When    in    Egypt  there   is  food, 
Where,   in   balmy  air,   perennial   blooms  the  rose ; 
Where  snow  and  chilling  frost,   with   biting  icy   breath 
Can   ne'er  be   understood?" 

O'er  lakes  and  forests  tall, 

How  foundest  thou   the  way,    by   night,   by   day,    in 
Weary,   toilsome  flight,   unless   He  did  guide  thee, 

Who   marks  the  sparrow's  fall  ? 

Oh,   happy  wert  thou   then, 
Bathing   in   the   limpid   stream   and   sunlight 
With  thy   mate.     Didst  not  thy   heart  often   yearn 

For  thy   north   home  again  ? 

Yes,    I    know   it   must,   for  see, 
Thou  art  here,   looking  for  the  dear,   familiar  spots 
Thou  didst  know  and   love  last  year.     Even 

The  very  apple  tree, 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  21 

Where  thou   and  thy   loved   mate 
Reared   in   safety,   'mid   its  sheltering  branches, 
A  brood  of  five  open-mouthed,   callow  fledglings 

To   robin's  full   estate. 

Thy   song   is  very   sweet 

On   evening  air  at  set  of  sun.     The   new  born   day 
Finds  thee  still   praising   Him   who   loves  and  cares  for 

All   his  creatures.     It  is   mete. 

Prophetic,   art  thou,   bird  ! 

Thy  presence  brings  visions  of  swelling  buds,   wild 
Flowers,   by   King  Winter's  reign   entombed,   till   Spring's 

Enchanting  voice   is  heard  ; 

Nature's  resurrection   day ; 

When  the  dead  shall  hear  the  voice:   "Come  forth  again 
Be  warmed  to   life   by  summer's  sun   and   shower!" 

And  joyfully  obey. 


THE    REASON    WHY. 

You   naughty,   wicked   boy  !  "   she  said, 

"  To   kill   those  pretty  birds  ! 

I've  half  a   mind — '   her  eyes  flashed  fire, 

More  dangerous  than   her  words. 
Please,   miss,"   the  frightened   boy  replied, 

Cowering  where  he  sat ; 
I   had  to  kill  these  Orioles 

To  trim   mv  sister's  hat !  " 


22  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    HOOSIER    NECTAR. 

The  spring  is   kinder  lingerin' 

In  Winter's  lap  they  say, 
Though  the  wild  geese  go  a  honkin'   north 

An'   the  birds  hev  come  to  stay ; 
Yet  there's  an  achin'   void  which  can't 

Be  filled  by  birds  or  grass— 
A   hankerin'   of  the  soul   which   cries 

For  tea  of  Sassafras. 

I  jest  set  down   sometimes  and   long 

For  them    Indiana  woods, 
When   we  uster,    in   the    early   days, 

Git  purifyin'   moods ; 
And  usher  in  the  early  spring, 

Singly,   or  en   masse, 
By  washin'   down   our  corn   pone  bread 

With  tea  of  Sassafras. 

We'd   never  heerd   of  microbes  then, 

In  fact,   they  wasn't   known  ; 
The  wisest  doctors  in   the  land 

Had   never  yet  been   shown 
Such  things  as  we  are  findin'   now 

With   magnifyin'  glass — 
But  they  can  all   be  driven   out 

With  tea  of  Sassafras. 

It's  jest  too  bad,   Mirandy  says, 

That  she  can't  fer  a   minnit 
Set  out  doors  a  pan  of  jelly 

'Thout  them   critters  gittin'    in   it ; 
An'   you  git   'em    in   your  system 

Jest  by  eatin'   of  this  sass 
An'   to  git   'em   out  we   hev  to   drink 

The  tea  of  Sassafras  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  23 

Pennyroyal   may  be  fairly  good, 

Er  Boneset,   to  the  taste, 
But  drinkin'   store  tea  in  the  spring 

Is  only  jest  a  waste ; 
Ef  you  want  ter  purify  yer  blood, 

An'   avoid  too   much   "blue  mass," 
Jest  grab  a  grubbin'   hoe  and  dig 

Some  roots  of  Sassafras 

An'   bile   'em   fer  a  spell,   and  drink 

The  tea  three  times  a  day, 
An'   the  megrums  and  blue  devils 

Will  forever  flee  away. 
There  comes  a  time   in  all  our  lives 

When  the  heavens  are  as  brass, 
An'   blood  corp'sules  jest  holler  out 

For  tea  of  Sassafras ! 

Some  men   spend   nearly  all   their  lives 

At  colleges  and  sich, 
To  dig  out  roots  with   skeery  names 

That  haint  no  use,   and  which 
Are  used  to   mystify  and  skeer 

The   ignoranter  class, 
Who  jest  go  on  from   spring  to  spring, 

Drinkin'   tea  of  Sassafras ! 

We  allus  brew  some  of  this  tea, 

In   spring  twilight,   soft  and  dim, 
An'   git  the  old   blue  teapot  out 

An'   fill    it  to  the   brim  ; 
Then  set  and  quaff  this  beverage 

Until  we  gently  pass 
In   sweet  dreams,   to   Indianny,   with 

Her  tea  of  Sassafras ! 


24  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    SUMMER'S    FAREWELL. 

Dying: 

Summer  with   her  birds  and  flowers  ; 
Leaves  with   blood-red  colors  glinting 
In   the   smoke  veiled   sun's  soft  tinting  ; 
To  regretful   mortals  hinting, 
Death   to  summer  shine  and   showers. 
Slowly  dying ! 

Fading : 

How  the   summer  flowers  are  fading  ! 
There  yet  remains  the  goldenrod 
To  greet  the  world  with  graceful   nod. 
Its  sweet  face   lifted   up  to  God, 
With   answering  tints  of  sunset's  shading. 
Sweetly   lingering ! 

Flitting: 
See  how  summer  birds  are  flocking. 

For  the  warm   south   home's  returning ; 
Knowing  well   and   well   discerning 
Warmth  and  food  there  waits  the  earning. 
Where  Nature's  door  opes  to  their  knocking. 
Happy  songsters  ! 

Chafing : 

Ah,   my  soul,   what  a  glad   winging ! 
Breaking  cords  of  care  and  toiling 
Hands  and   hearts  forever  soiling. 
Flying  far  from   labor's  moiling, 
To  fill  the  earth   and  air  with   singing ! 
Life's   unchaining  ! 


THE    HIVEH    BEND    AND    OTHEH    POEMS.  2S 

Passing : 
Like  the  summer,   life   is  passing! 

How.    like   changing  leaf  of  myrtle 
Fade  we.   fall   and   pass  the  portal 
Leading  to  the   life   immortal, 
Where  the   King  of  Life   is  sitting  ! 
Swiftly  passing  ! 


DISILLUSION. 

Her  eyes  were  of  the  deepest  blue, 

Her  teeth   were  white  as   pearls  ; 
My  heart  beat  at  a  furious   rate ; 
My  eyes  were  fastened  to  my  plate  ; 
My  ego  said  :     "  She   is  your  fate 

This  prettiest  of  girls  !  " 
And   when   she  raised   her  face  to   mine. 

What   sweetness  filled   my   cup  ! 
But  when   with   ear  of  corn   between 
Her  lily  hands  were  toying  seen, 
She  gnawed   the  rows    off,   slick   and   clean, 

I   sighed    and   gave  her  up ! 


26  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


HIGH    LIGHTS. 

Last  evenin'   I   was  left  alone  and   kinder  fell  to   musin' 
'Bout  them  times  when  all  the  world  was  sort  o'  slow  and  shore; 

When  the  days  were  meant  for  work,   and    the  nights  were  used 

for  snoozin', 
And  the   latch-string  used  to   hang  from   everybody's  door. 

How  we  used  to  ride  to  church   in   any  sort  of  weather 
Behind  a  patient  ox  team,   with   a  jolly  lot  of  pairs, 

Who  warn't  never   in   a   hurry  and   did   not  care   much  whether 
They  got  there  just  in  time  for  first  or  second   prayers. 

There's  no  such   thing  as  hurry  and   'twas  little   use  to  bother 
An  ox  team   as  it  took   its  way  from   early   morn   till   night; 

But  the  delib'rate  way  they  put  one  foot  before  the  other, 
To  a   man   of   moderation   was  a  very  restful   sight. 

I   seemed  to  see  before  me,   my  cabin   wall's  adornin', 
The   strips  of  pumpkin   dryin',   with   Calamus  and   Sage, 

The   Pennyroyal,    Boneset,   Tansy  and   the  dry   seed   corn    in 
Rows,   for  the  spring  seedin',   and   the  Catnip  for  tender  age. 

The  plates  up  in  the  cupboard  all  set  on  aige  and  gleamin' 
In  the  light  from  open  fire,  in  the  fire  place,  big  and  wide, 

The  dancin'  shadders  on  the  walls,  the  tea-kittle  a  steamin', 
The  backlog  throwing  sparkles  out  the  andirons  beside. 

That  the  world  is  makin'  changes  is  not  to  be  disputed, 
But  if  you  jest  could  see  the  sights  I  witness  every  day, 

You'd  wonder  jest  as  I  do,  how  sech  High  Art  evoluted, 
An'  got  tangled  up  with  Bricky-brack  in  such  a  skeery  way. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  27 

Our  Sunday  wash-rags  all   have  got  a  Jaberwock  a  starin', 
My  boot-jack   is  a  pinchin'-bug,   with  wild,   protrudin'   eyes, 

With   Griffins  on   the  wash-bowl,   while  the  pitcher  is  a  sharin' 
The  deep  glow  of  one  of  Italy's   most  excited   skies  ! 

I   eat   my  fish   on   Fridays  from  one  of  those  hand-wrought  dishes, 
With   a  pickerel   painted   on   it,  jest  a  gaspin'   for  its  breath, 

While  the  butterflies,   the  millers,  and  the  thirsty   little  fishes 
'Round  the  aige,   give  silent  witness  to   its  very  cruel  death. 

Mirandy  says  the  painters  in  the   medieval   ages 

Worked   long  upon  their  picters    for  they'd   nothin'   else  to  do— 
An'   descanted   'bout  sech  art  on   history's  future  pages 

While   I   sewed  on   a  button  fer  to   hitch   my  gallus  to  ! 

An'   as  fer  taking  lessons,   folks  don't  think   of  sech   a  thing ; 

They    jest  git  brush   and  canvas  and   paint  picters  on  the  run-- 
And   pester  old   Dame   Natur'-  or  shoot  her  on  the  wing 

With  the  ever-present   Kodack,   or  the  photographic  gun  ! 

Then  there's    Extension    Lecters,   plain   people's  thoughts   beguilin', 

And   leading  their  ambition  and   intellect  astray, 
By   'Varsity   Professors,  jest  to   keep  their  pots  a  bilin', 

Which   may  be  would   be  difficult  in   any  other  way. 

And  women   in   the  sixties,   doin'   Delsartean   acts, 
An'   imitatin'   antics  which   our  frisky   maidens  do  ; 

And   tryin  to  be  graceful   at  expense  of  achin'   backs 
Land  of  hope  and  blessed  promise  !    What's  the  world  a  comin' 
to? 


28  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


WHEN    THE    BLOOM    IS    ON    THE    CORN. 

When   the  goldenrod   is  budding 

On  the  hills  and   by  the  streams, 
As  an   earnest  that   it  soon   will  glad 

Our  eyes  with   sunny  beams  ; 
When   the   katydid   persistent  sings 

From   early  eve  till   morn, 
All   nature  seems  to  joy   with   us 

When   the   bloom    is  on   the   corn. 

The  goldenrod   with   nodding   plumes 

In   every   waste  place  grows  ; 
The   katydid,    in   thrilling  tones, 

Pipes  the  only  song  it  knows ; 
^Esthetic  people,   at  these  two, 

May  curl   their  lip   in   scorn ; 
But  flower  and  song  are  dear  to   me. 

As  the  bloom   upon  the  corn. 

1    sit   me   down   sometimes  and    long 

For  those  bright  fabled    lands, 
Where  sweet  perennial   roses  bloom 

'Mid   billowy  waste  of  sands, 
But  content   myself  with   wondering 

If   it  would    not   be  forlorn 
Ne'er  to   mix  those  sweet  breathed  flowers 

With   the   bloom    upon   the   corn. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  29 

And   oh,   when   Want  or  Famine,   sore, 

Rears  up   its  famished   head  ; 
While   children  tug  at  mother's  skirts 

With   hungry  cries  for  bread  ; 
How  sweet   'twill   be  to  still  those  cries, 

Across  the  waters  borne, 
By  sending  them   relief,   because 

The   bloom   is  on   the  corn. 

If  all   the  plants,   excepting  corn, 

Were  compressed   into  one, 
For  crowning  of  the  king  of  earth, 

For  the  good  that   he  had  done, 
King  Maize  would  then   be  laurel  wreathed, 

And   proudly  would   be   worn, 
Amid   the  plaudits  of  the  world,. 

While  the  bloom   is  on   the  corn. 

Proud   Iowa,   with   flowers  bedecked, 

As  fair  as  any  bride, 
To  thee   1   sing  this  simple  strain, 

With   a  heart  uplift  of  pride. 
As   nations  turn  their  eyes  to  thee, 

Their  children   yet  unborn 
Will   bless  thee,   with   uplifted   hands, 

For  the  bloom   upon  the  corn. 


30  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


CHRYSANTHEMUM. 

She  peeps  at  me  through  the  window   pane 

As  I   pass  with   lingering  pace ; 
How  sweet  she  looks,   but  does  not  deign 
To   invite  the  touch   which   I   would  fain 

Place  on   her  witching  face. 
How  fair  she  is   in   her  dainty  dress, 

And  wherefore  is  she  come, 
In  winter  season  thus  to  bless 
Us  with  her  blooming  ?  Can  you  guess 

Her  name  ?    Chrysanthemum  ! 

How  sweet  of  her,   when  the  year  is  old, 

With   the  breath  of  frost  and   ice, 
To   link  the  seasons,   warm   and  cold, 
With  floral  chain  of  red  and  gold, 

Of   Nature's  own   device  ! 
Oh,   queen,   well   worthy   of  a  crown  ! 

To  teach   us  thou  art  come, 
To  give  brightness  for  a  winter's  frown  ; 
Thus  smiling  all   despondence  down, 

Like  thee,   Chrysanthemum  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  31 


OUR    HOOSIER    STATE. 

We  sing  the   Hoosier's  glad  refrain 

In  joying  that  we   meet  again, 

To  sing  a  song  and  shake  the  hand 

In   memory  of  our  native   land. 

Oh,   Hoosier  Land,   Loved   Hoosier  Land, 
With   r  vers,   lakes  and  forests  grand ; 

Our  thoughts  are  turning  back  to  thee, 

And   in   our  vision   still   can   see 

The  old  well   sweep,   the  cabins   low, 

Our  happy   homes  of  long  ago. 

Our  thoughts  go  roaming  through   the  glade, 
And  rest  at  times  beneath   the  shade 
Of  Paw  Paw  tree,  or  spreading  Linn, 
The  sweet  Black   Haw  or  Chinquapin. 

Oh,   Hoosier  Land,   Loved   Hoosier  Land. 

Thy  visions  rise  on   every  hand  ; 
We  ride  again,   with   little  joy  ; 
Along  thy  roads  of  Corduroy, 
And  drink,   without  a  trace  of  smile. 
Thy   Boneset  tea   in   every  style  ! 

Dear  Hoosier  State,   our  memory's  pride, 
We  love  thee,   laying  jokes  aside, 
We  crown  thy   memory  to-day 
With   wreaths  of  Dogwood   blossoms  gay. 
Oh,   Hoosier  Land,   Loved   Hoosier  Land 
We  for  thy  honor  ever  stand  ; 
We'll   ne'er  forget  the  taste  or  smell 
Of  Sassafras  and  Calomel ; 
We'll   drink   thy  health   without  remark 
In   Whisky  mixed  with   Cherry  Bark  ' 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    J.    ADDISON    HEPBURN. 

Folded   hands,   now  white  and   still, 

Silently  surrendering 
All  to  God's  most  gracious  will  ; 
Gone,   beyond   all   care  and   ill, 
Dust  to  dust  now  rendering ; 
Folded,   placid   hands, 
Once  such   busy  hands. 

What  to  them   life's  busy  throng 

From   it   now   dismembering  ? 
He,  whose  life  was  as  a  song ; 
A   heart  which   carolled   all   day   long, 
With   notes  well   worth  remembering. 
Folded,   icy   hands, 
Once  such  clinging  hands. 

Folded   hands,    now   sweet   in   rest, 

Friendship's  strong  ties  sundering, 
Feeling  that  God    knoweth   best, 
Consenting  to   His  high   behest, 
Weeping   still   and   wondering ; 
Folded,    idle   hands, 
Empty,   trusting  hands. 

Folded,  tired   and  weary   hands, 

Quietly   and   trustingly, 
Waiting  the   Father's  loved   commands, 
To  rise  to  sun-kissed   upper  lands, 
In   peace   the  Savior's  face  to   see ; 
Promise  grasping  hands, 
Happy,   clinging  hands. 


THE    HIVEH    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


MY    LADY'S    VIOLIN. 

If  I   were  but  her  violin, 
Resting  beneath   her  dimpled  chin, 

How   happy  would   I   be? 
With  fingers  pressing  here  and  there, 
Gliding   in   cadence  everywhere, 
With  touches  light  and   passing  fair, 
That  would   be   heaven  for  me, 
If   I   were  but  her  violin, 
Her  soul-entrancing  violin  ! 


It   I   were  but  her  violin, 
Resting  beneath  her  snow-white  chin, 

What  could  1  want  beside  ! 
With  fingers  fair  by  her   caressed, 
Reposing  on  her  heaving  breast, 
Like  chirping  birdling  in   its  nest, 
Could  there  a  woe  betide. 
If  1   were  but  her  violin, 
Her  spirit-soothing  violin  ? 


34  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

If  I   were  but  her  violin. 
Pressed   lightly  by  her  rounded  chin, 

How  silent  would   1   lie  ! 
Waiting  the  touch  of  magic  bow, 
Wielded   by  arm   as  white  as  snow, 
Giving  me  voice,   now   loud,   now   low, 
In  sweetest  melody, 
If  I   were  but  her  violin, 
Her  foot-bewitching  violin  ! 

If  I   were  but  her  violin, 
Pressed   lovingly  beneath   her. chin, 

Ah,   what  ecstatic  bliss  ! 
To  feel  the  throbbing  of  each  vein, 
As  from   sweet  music's  tangled  skein 
Come  sounds  as  soft  as  summer's  rain, 
When  storm   clouds  gently  kiss  ; 
If  I   were  but  her  violin, 
Her  wooing,   cooing  violin  ! 

If  1   were  but  her  violin, 
With   envied   place  beneath   her  chin, 

How   sweet  would   be  the   note 
I'd  yield  to  her  caressing  hands, 
The  treasure  which   her  skill   demands  ; 
Or,   servile  be,   as  slave  who  stands 
To   kiss  the  hand  which   smote, 
If   1   were  but  her  violin, 
Her  heart-subduing  violin  ! 


THE    R1VEH    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


35 


If  I   were  but  her  violin, 
To  rest  no  more  beneath   her  chin, 

How  sad  would  be  the  day 
When   Music's  daughter  was  brought  low, 
And  when,   with  trembling  hands  and  slow, 
She'd   lay  me,   with   the  useless  bow, 
Forever  from   her  touch  away  ! 
An   old,   neglected  violin, 
A  silent,   soundless  violin  ! 


JUNE. 

Oh,   month   of  dainty  roses ! 

Brought  forth   by  warm   May  showers, 
We  hail  thee  with  thy  garlands 

Of  gaily  tinted  flowers. 
But  there's  a  dark   suspicion 

That  thy  glories  without  doubt, 
In  charming  Nature's  lovers, 

Will   hatch  the   microbes  out ! 


36  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


MEMORY'S    CADENCES. 

Read  before  Early   Settlers  Society,  September  13,  1892. 

Do  you  ask   why  this  infliction, 

Why   I   sing  this  song  before  you, 

Filled   with  very  ancient  legends, 

Bringing  back   to  fading  memories 

Incidents  almost  forgotten, 

Even   many  jokes  with   whiskers  ? 

Listen,   I   will   quickly  tell  you, 

Why,  from   mind  so  retrospective, 

1   have  sown   beside  all  waters, 

Reaping  now  a  memory's  harvest ; 

Listen,  you  will  all  remember. 

That,    in   an   unguarded   moment, 

You   elected   me  historian, 

Hence,  you'll   have  to  grin  and   bear  it  ! 

Whence  gained   1   these   musty   mouthings 

With  the  moss  of  age  upon  them, 

With  the  odor  of  the  forests 

Mingling  with  the  prairie  flowers  ; 

Just  as  nature  breathed  upon   them 

In  our  then  primeval  forests, 

On  our  boundless,   trackless  prairies  ? 

I   will   tell  you   if  you'll   hearken 
Barlow  Granger  taught  me  many, 
By  his  Star,   which   rose   in   splendor, 
In   the  vear  before  the  fifties. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  37 

When   he  printed   in   a  cabin 

The  first  paper  in  this  section  ; 

Fighting  cold   in   dead  of  winter, 

Which   crept  through  the   interstices, 

By  live  coals  beneath   his  presses, 

Thus  to   soften   ink   and   rollers. 

Honor  be  to   Barlow  Granger, 

For  his  Star,   thus  early  shining, 

Lightened   up  the  settler's  pathway  ; 

Spoke   our  village  into  being  ! 

Honor  be  to   L.    P.   Sherman, 

Who,   by  his  Gazette  has  taught  me 

Many  stories  of  privations 

He  endured   in   eighteen  fifty, 

When   he  ate   his  bread   with   scarceness, 

Sharing  with   his  poorer  neighbors  ; 

Honors  thrice  to   L.    P.   Sherman  ! 

Learned   them   in  the  settler's  cabins 

At  their  frugal   dinner  tables, 

Eating  corn   pone  without  butter, 

Spearing  bacon  from   the  skillet 

Where   it  swam   in   richest  gravy  ! 

Ah,   those  times  of  want  and   scarceness, 

How  they  welded   hearts  together 

In   a  way   not  soon  forgotten  ! 

George  G.   Wright,   the  story  teller, 
The  just  Judge  from    Keosauqua, 
He  has  told   me  many  stories, 
Mixing  up   my  tears  with   laughter  ! 

You   remember  Martin   Tucker, 

Who   had   "  stabling  at  right  angles," 

On   his  tavern   built   "  condition," 


38  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

Ran   an   "  avenue "   through  the   middle, 
"Detained"   guests   in   "  hostile  "  manner  ? 
And  Squire  Young,  the  thoughtful  student, 
Drove  a  nail   in  floating  pontoon, 
At  the  water's  edge  he  drove   it, 
In  the  evening,   at  the   "  Float   Bridge," 
Thus  to  note  the  rising  water. 
In   the   morning,  though  the  river 
Looked   more  angry  and   seemed   wider, 
He  declared   it  had   not  risen 
By  the  tell-tale   nail's  position  ! 
And  the  jovial   Billy  Woodwell, 
Once,   when   east  to   buy  some   hardware, 
Loaded  up  a  boat  with  grindstones. 
Thus   he  argued   to   his  partners  :  — 
"  Every  one   must  have  a  grindstone  ; 
Rich  and   poor  of  every  station 
Needs  one  of  these  circular  sharpeners- 
What  is  life,   without  a  grindstone  ? 
We   must  boom  the  grindstone   business  !  " 

Billy  Moore,  the  old-time  druggist, 
Drifting  into  dry  goods,   notions, 
Hats  and  caps  and   ladies'   bonnets, 
Had  his  store  oft  filled  with   buyers  ; 
By  his  genial   disposition, 
By  his  long  old-time  acquaintance, 
By  the  tremor  of  his  eyelids, 
Winked  them   out  of   lots  of    money  ! 

When  the  spring  unlocked   the  rivers 
From   old  Winter's  icy  fetters, 
When  the  wild  goose  flying  northward 
Hinted  at  the  coming  springtime, 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS.  39 

Visions  brought  of  birds  and  violets  ; 

Then  there  came  a  sound  far  sweeter, 

Listened  for  by  anxious  settlers  ; 

Looked  for  with   intensest  longing. 

Far  adown  the  rapid  river 

Came  a  sound  of  prolonged   harshness, 

Somewhat  softened   by  the  distance, 

Told  the  coming  of  a  steamboat  — 

First  arrival  of  the  season  ! 

Babes  were  left  in   cradles  sleeping, 

Stores  and  offices  deserted, 

Men   in   haste,   with   hair  disheveled, 

Women,   with   sunbonnets  swinging, 

Sometimes  without  shoes  or  stockings, 

Sped   with   hastening  feet  to   landing, 

Glad   to   meet  the   new  arrival, 

Six  days  from  the  Mississippi, 

Linking  us  to  civilization  ! 

Ah,  the  comforts  they  have  brought  us, 

Rice  and   sugar,  flour  and  bacon, 

Tea  and  coffee,   drugs  and   dry  goods, 

Hardware,   millinery — whisky  ! 

How  the   men  all   eyed  those  barrels  — 

Longed  to  taste  their  fiery  contents  ; 

How  the  women   longed  for  bonnets  ! 

Wondered   if  they'd  be  becoming  ! 

Names  of  boats  you  fain  would  ask   me  ; 
Here  they  are,   from  memory's  storehouse  — 
See  if  you  can   recognize  them  : 
The   lone  that  brought  the  soldiers  ; 
Caleb  Cope,   Add   Hine,   Kentucky, 
John   B.   Gordon,   Globe,   Luella, 
Clara  Hine  and   Little  Morgan, 


40  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

Des  Moines  Belle  and  Charlie   Rodgers. 

Flora  Temple,   De  Moine  City, 

Badger  State,   Nevada,   Alice ; 

And,  no  doubt,   there  were  some  others, 

Which  have  slipped  from  cells  of  memory. 

You   remember  Isaac  Cooper, 

Energetic  early  settler, 

Dug  the  first  well   in  this  county, 

Using  as  a  tool   a  skillet ; 

Made  the  first  shoes  in  this  township, 

From   boot  legs  and   skirt  of  saddle, 

Becoming,   thus,   the  first   "  bootlegger." 

Ezra   Rathburn,   the  first  preacher. 
Gave  first  sermon   in  this  section. 
Followed  soon   by   many  others. 
Thompson   Bird,   of  blessed   memory, 
Broke  the   Bread   of  Life   in  cabins, 
Trudged  on  foot  to   meet  appointments, 
Sometimes  swam  his  horse  through  rivers  ; 
His  was  love  that  waters  quenched   not, 
For  his  heart  ne'er  ceased   its  singing  ; 
His  was  zeal  that  darkness  dimmed   not, 
For  his  lamp  was  trimmed  and   burning. 
J.   A.   Nash,   the   much   lamented, 
He,   the  loved  of  everybody, 
Founded  the  first  Baptist  mission, 
In  the  great  flood  year  of  Iowa, 
Eighteen  fifty-one,   when   rivers 
Swelled  by  rains   in  torrents  falling, 
Crept  beyond  the  banks'   confining, 
Flooded  all   the  river's  lowlands  ! 


THE    HIVEK    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  41 

Should   you  ask   a  Baptist  brother 
Of  this  year  of  tribulation, 
If,   between   this  flood  and  founding, 
There  was  any  real   connection, 
He  a  pitying   look  will  give  you, 
But  no  word  will  give   in  answer. 

Let  the   names  of  early  settlers 
E'er  be  wreathed   in   brightest  laurels  ; 
Let  their  memories  be  cherished  ; 
Tears  for  dead  and  cheers  for  living. 
They  have  smoothed  life's  rugged  pathway 
For  the  coming  feet  of  children  ; 
They   have  laid  a  good  foundation 
Broad  and  deep,  for  coming  thousands 
Who  will  tread  these  fruitful  valleys, 
When   the  Old   World,  gaunt  and   hungry, 
Turns  her  longing  eyes  to   Iowa, 
Land  of  corn,   wheat,   milk   and   honey, 
Kissed   of  God,   by  sun  and   shower  ! 

Golden,   shining  links  of  friendship, 
Welded   by   half  century's  forgings, 
In  the  time  when  Want  and  Scarceness 
Were  unbidden  guests  at  firesides, 
Year  by  year  are  being  broken. 
Like  the  tinted   leaves  of  Autumn 
When  the  soft  wind   breathes  upon  them, 
They  are  falling.      They  are  passing 
To  the   "  House  of  Many   Mansions  !  " 

Thus  we  sing  a  song  of  gladness. 
Mingled  with  regrets  and  sorrow, 
For  the   many   missing  faces 


42  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

Which  were  wont  to   mingle  with   us  ; 
Joying  in  the  glad  possessions 
They  have  left  to   living  children. 

There   is  still   an  old  tradition 

Reaching  back   into  the  ages, 

That  our  Iowa,   in   creation 

Was  the  happy   Eden   Garden, 

Where,   in   summer,   our  first  parents 

Walked  this  land   in  airy  costume. 

Isaac   Brandt  told   me  this  story 

Years  ago,   when   these  broad  prairies 

Caused   his  heart  to  throb  with  pleasure  : 

Charmed  the  eye  of  all   beholders. 

I   believe  this  sweet  tradition. 

I   believe  by  excavation 

In   the    soil,   so  richly  laden 

With  the  food  for  every   nation, 

We   may  find   the  bones  of  Adam  ! 


TILL    DEATH    DO    US    PART, 

Where  are  you  going,   young  man,"   she  said, 

"With   pistol   at  your  side?" 

I   am   going  to   ask   a  fair  young  girl 

To   be   my   bonnie   bride  !  " 
Suppose   she   refuse,"   the   maiden   said  ; 

Then   he   tapped   his   belt  of   leather ; 
Should   she  decline  with   thanks,   we'll   climb 

The  Golden   Stairs  together !  " 


THE    RIVEH    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


JUNIOR    HYMN. 

Oh,   God,   we  lift  our  hearts  to  Thee, 

A   little  praying  band, 
To  Thee,   the  source  of  every  good, 

Oh,   lead   us  by  the  hand, 
And  teach   us,   by  Thy  love  so  free, 
That  boys  and  girls  may  trust  in   Thee. 

We  come  with  youthful   hearts  to-day 
To  sing  Thy  songs  of  praise  ; 

To  Thee,   our  father's  God  to  Thee 
Our  earnest  voices  raise, 

And  ask  that  Thou,   o'er  all  this  land 

Will   bless  the  Junior  C.    E.   Band. 

As  bows  the  tender  mother's  ear 
To  catch  the  prattler's  word, 

Sweeter  to  her  than   anv  sound 
By  which  her  heart  is  stirred, 

So   may  the  Savior's  heart,   to-day, 

Be  gladdened  while  the  Juniors  pray. 

Oh,   Thou,  the  source  of  life  and   light. 
We  raise  our  thoughts  to   Thee  ; 

Lead   Thou  us  on,   in   works  of  love, 
Till  we  Thy  face  shall   see. 

Then  shall  we  see,   and  hear,   and   know, 

Why  God  the   Father  loves  us  so. 


44  THE    HIVEH    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    FIRST    SNOW    OF    WINTER. 

Whirling  and  swirling  the  snow  comes  down  ; 

Beautiful   snow  with    its  crystals  pure, 
Covering  valleys  and  forests  brown, 
Unsightly  streets  of  country -and  town, 
The  first  intimation   of  winter's  frown, 

The  joy   of  the   rich,   the  dread   of  the   poor ; 
Oh,   cruel   snow,   with  flakes  so  white, 
Thou  art  falling  on   her  grave  to-night  ! 

Silently,    softly,   the   cold  flakes   heap, 

Fighting  for  place  on   the   wintry  ground  ; 

Shrouding  the  graves  where  the  flowers  sleep, 

Drifting  on   plain   and   rocky   steep 

In    many   a  curious  shape   and   heap. 
Covering  the  old   and   new   made   mound. 

Oh,   winter's  snow,   with   veil   so  white, 

Thou   art  resting  on   his  grave  to-night  ! 

In   open  fire   upon   the  tiled   hearth 

Come  forms  and   images  of  the   misty  past, 
And  trooping  forth  comes  sharers  of  the   mirth 
In  years  behind  you,  when  the  whole  round  earth 
Seemed   all   of  joy.   and   came   no   dearth, 

Nor  shadow   on   your  happiness   was  cast ; 
Nor  could  you  say  of  hope's  young  blight, 
The  snow   is  falling  on    its  grave  to-night  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  45 

Dying  are  the  coals  within   the  grate, 

Anon  the  ashes  through  the  bars  are  cast, 
Their  lives  consumed.      Such   is  the  fate 
Of  those  who   live  for  others,   and   who  wait 
With   patience,   born   of  trust,   the  future  state, 

Where   Peace  and  Joy  review  the  shadowy  past, 
With   heart  cries  stilled,   nor  chill  afright, 
Of  winter's  snow  upon   the  graves  at  night  ! 


EARLY    CALLED. 

Very   handsome 
Young  man,   he  ; 
Father  rich  as 
Rich  could  be. 
Lucky  chappie  ! 

Smoked   cigarettes 

Day  and   night ; 

Air  tight  casket, 
"  Out  of  sight." 

Weeping  parents. 

When   men   die  for  want  of  sense, 
We  sobbing,   whisper,   "  Providence  ! 


46  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


WHEN    THE    MISTS    HAVE    PASSED. 

For  now  we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly. — I.  Cor.  xiii,  12. 

How  we  grope  and   blindly  wander, 

As  we  pass  life's  journey  through  ; 
Judging  men  and  women   harshly 

In  so   many  things  they  do  ; 
For  our  vision   is  so  darkened 

By  the  veil   which   hides  the  day, 
Till  the  sun  shall   rise   in   splendor 

And  the   mists  shall  roll  away. 

Men  we've   marched  with   in   life's  conflict, 

Touching  elbows  in   the   line, 
Bivouacking  on  the  battle  fields, 

Kneeling  at  the  self  same  shrine  ; 
But  their  hearts  were  veiled  and   hidden, 

From   trusting  friends  for  aye, 
And  whose  love  for  them   will   brighten 

When  the   mists  have  passed  away. 

There  are  men   in   humble  stations, 

Toiling  for  their  daily  food  ; 
We  oft  pass  them   by  with   coldness  ; 

They  are  not  understood. 
Bye  and  bye,   when  we  shall   see  them 

In   the  sunlight,   we   shall   say  : 
Would  that  we  had   known  you  better, 

Ere  the  mists  had  cleared  away." 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  47 

When   our  wealth   is  weighed   in  balance, 

How   strange  will   be  the  sight, 
That  the  fortune  of  the  miser 

Don't  outweigh  the  widow's  mite  ; 
When   a  cup  of  water  given, 

In   a  gentle,   loving  way, 
Will   bring  joy  unto  the  giver, 

When  the  mists  have  passed   away  ! 


TO    HENRY    WATTERSON. 

Ah,   Watterson,   you  brave  old  boy  ! 

We're  glad  the  war  is  over ; 
And   now  the  North  and  South  will   live 

In   harmony  and  clover ; 
We'll   nevermore  go  round  with  chips 

Perched  on  defiant  shoulder ; 
Nor  let  the  hate  of  North  or  South 

Within   our  bosoms  smoulder. 
God  bless  our  Henry  Watterson, 

For  his  patriotic  story  ! 
Three  cheers  for  our  New  North  and  South, 

And  a   "Tiger"  for  "Old   Glory!" 


48  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    OLD    HAWKEYE    BAND. 

Respectfully  dedicated  to  the  survivors  of  I860. 

Your  big  State   Band    is  awful    nice  ; 

Its   music   is  jest  grand  ; 
But  you  oughter  heerd,  in   times  gone  by, 

The  famous   "  Hawkeye   Band." 
Lor',   there  was  harm'ny  for  the  soul, 

And   music  fer  the  feet  ; 
The  verdick   of  them   days  was  that 
"  Sech   music's  hard   to  beat  !  " 

A.   Hartung  was  our  leader, 

Ed.   Kimball   blowed  the  bass, 
Billy  Boyd  the   leadin'   cornet, 

And   Newt  Curl   the   second   place  ; 
Hutton,   Carter,   Houstons,   Hussey, 

Bitting,   Estabrook   and   Hoare, 
With   Sam   Noble  second  Tuba, 

Made  up  the  jolly  corps. 

Our  clothes  were  not  as  fine  as  ther'n, 

Ner  wore  sech   handsome  caps, 
All  trimmed   with   brass  and  old  gold   lace 

And   lined  with   silk,   perhaps. 
We  wore  our  best-  no  two  alike 

Ner  did  we  ever   'spose 
The  crowds  which  hung  around,  entranced, 

Hed  come  to  see  our  clothes  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  49 

You'd   oughter  seen   us  fellers   march 

Fust  time,   on  a  parade  ; 
Per  every  man   tuck   his  own  time 

And  acted   kind  o'   'fraid. 
You   see  we  wasn't  used  to  sech  ; 

And  from  fust  man  to  twelfth, 
He  started  out  onto  a  gait 

Jest  suited  to  hisself  ! 

We  had   no   big   "  Drum   Major  "   man 

A  whirlin'   of  a  club 
And  a  struttin'   proudly  on   before 

To  the  drum's  sharp   "  rub-a-dub." 
We  played  the  chunes  to  suit  ourselfs 

With  all  our  soul  and  mind, 
And   no  one   "  guyed  "   a  player  ef 

He  was  a  bar  behind. 

The  chunes  ?    Wall,  you  will  think  them  old — 

To   me  they'll   never  die  ; 
The   "Java  March,"  the   "Soldier's  Joy," 
"  Katy   Darling,"   "  Nellie   Ely," 
Massa's  in  the  Cold,   Cold  Ground," 
"  The   Long,   Long  Weary   Day," 
The   "  Hawkeye   Polka,"   "  Polonaise," 

And   "  Darling  Nellie  Gray." 

Ah,   well,   I   'spose  that  everything 

In  time  will   pass  away  ; 
And   every  band,   as  well   as  dog, 

Must  also  hev  their  day  ; 
But  if  1   am   so  fort'nate 

As  to  tramp  the  golden   strand, 
'Twill   not  be  heaven   at  all   to   me 

Without  that  "  Hawkeye   Band  !  " 


50 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


COMODORE  KELLY'S  NAVY  YARD 


General  Kelly's  Industrial  Army  arrived  in  Des  Moines,  Sunday,  April  29.  1894, 
and  finding  no  means  of  transportation  at  hand  built  scows  at  the  junction  of 
Des  Moines  and  Raccoon  rivers  and  embarked  on  May  9,  and  continued  their 
journey.  The  wives  of  some  of  the  citizens  joined  the  flotilla,  but  were  sent  back 
as  soon  as  the  fact  became  known  to  the  Commodore.  The  "angels"  alluded  to 
were  two  women  who  joined  the  army  at  Council  Bluffs,  and  shared  its  fortunes. 
They  had  state  rooms  on  the  "  Flag  Ship." 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  51 


THE    FRIEND    IN    NEED. 

Bear  them  gently,   bear  them   gently,   dear  river  of  Des  Moines, 
Down  through  our  much  loved  Iowa,  where  your  sparkling  waters  join 
The   Mississippi   river,   with   its  calm   majestic   sweep, 
As   it   runs   its  race   with   patience   to   swell   the  vasty  deep, 
Where  the  ocean  will   receive   it,   send   the   waters  back   again 
In   soft,   refreshing  showers,   to  gladden   Iowa's  plain. 

How  sweet  of  you,   dear  river,   when   our  folks  began   to  shout 
That   "  Kelly's  hungry  army  had  worn   their  welcome  out  ;  " 
When   railroads,   so  aggressive  and    so  fond   of    the    "  long  haul,\ 
Would   not  even  furnish   "hog  rates,"  —  or  any  rates  at  all; 
How  sweet  of  you,   I   say  again,   to   bare  your  breast  and   say : 
"  Come,   rest  upon  this  bosom  !    Accept  this  shining  way  !  " 

Oh,   sandbars  !     Hide  your  faces   now,   and  be  ye  water-veiled, 
Until   this  fleet  of  working    men   have  past    your    presence  sailed  ; 
And   snags,   will   you  please  clear  the  track  and    let  the  navy  go, 
Unhindered  and   untrammeled,   on   its  winding   way  and  slow? 
Crab   apple    blossoms,   when    you   can,   perfume  the    gentle    breeze. 
To  mingle  with  grape  blossoms'  scent  —  bow. low,  ye  willow  trees  ! 

Be   kind   to  them,   oh,   river  !     Encourage  them   to  think 
That   it's  good  for  outside  cleansing,   as  well   as  for  a  drink  : 
And   shore  sands,   be  ye  softened,   where  the  gentle  river  flows, 
As  the  softest  beds  and   pillows  where  the   rich   man   may  repose  ; 
And   silver  moon,   unclouded,   give  them   thy  gentle  ray, 
That    by    sunlight    and    by    moonlight,    they   may    hasten    on  their 
way, 


52  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

On    the    high    and    holy    duty    on    which 

they  say  they're  sent, 
To  shake  the    Tree  of    Fortune  —  and    the 

General   Government  ! 
Don't  delay  them,  little  Eddyville,  at  your 

pretty   horseshoe  bend  — 
Fill    them   up  with    grub    and    move  them 

on   to  their  journey's  end  ; 
Keep  Al  Swalm   clean  off  the  Flag  Ship  — 
AL  SWALM.  lest  to  all  our  grief, 

They    should  take  him   down   to  Washington   as  a  captive    Indian 
Chief  ! 

This  world  can   not   be  equal   made,   no   matter  how  we  try  ; 
For  some  must  eat    the  stale    brown    bread,   while    others    "  swipe 

the   pie  !  " 

And   it  is  not  unnatural  that  the  common  tars  should   roar, 
That  "  Kelly  hugs  the  angels,  while  we  have  to  hug  the  shore  !  " 
Ottumwa,   why   be  timid  ?    Let  General   Kelley   land 
His  fleet  and  take  collection  to  the   music  of  his  band  ; 

His  tars  are  very  harmless—  you   need   not  fear  your  lives  — 
Leave  your  chicken  coops  wide  open  —  but  fasten   up  your  wives  ! 
I  always  thought  'twas  uniforms  which  charmed  a -woman's  gaze  — 
But  brass  buttons  are   "  not  in   it  "   compared  to  pretty  ways  ; 
For  women  are   intuitive  and   maybe  this   is  how 
They  see  the  noble  purpose  which   wreaths  each   manly  brow. 

Keosauqua,   give  them   welcome,   with   provisions  without  end  — 
They'll   need   it,  these  brave  sailors,  when  they  voyage  round  that 

bend 

Of  fourteen   miles  and  over.     Don't  mention   it,   alack  ! 
Lest  they  fear  there  is   no   ending  and  try  to  paddle  back 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


53 


Just  pass  them   o'er  those  rapids,   on,   past  old   Bentonsport, 
To  the  twelve    foot   dam  at    Bonaparte,   for    here    there'll    be  some 
sport 

In   getting  the  fleet  over.     For  the  boys   it  will   be  fun  ; 

And    it's  altogether    likely  that  there'll    be   more  d — ns  than   one  • 

Then   Farmington  will   pass  the  boys  along  the  river  fine, 

And   Missouri  -then  will   share  the  work  of  keeping  them   in  line  ; 

Perhaps,   too,   in  the  way  of  feed,   she'll   lend  a  hand  at  that, 

And  while  the   glee  club    sings  a  song,   Kelly  will    pass   the  hat. 

Bear  them   oh,   so  gently,   river  sweet,   let  nothing  interfere 

To  cause  the   men   or  "  angels,"   to  shed  a  single  tear. 

Oh,  favoring    winds  !      Oh,    current    strong  !      Bring    to    them    all 

good   luck, 
And   land  them   on   the   border  line,  four  miles  from   Keokuk  ! 


54  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


VERNAL    LONGINGS. 

It's  yet  a  bit  too  early  to  plan  for  comin'   spring,  • 

An'  yet   I'm   gittin'   anxious  to  see  wild  flowers  once  more, 
A   noddin'   in  the  sunshine,   while  the  bees  upon  the  wing, 

Sip  eagerly  from   morn   till   night  the  honey  that  they  store 
For  winter's  use,  when  storm  clouds  lower  and  frost  is  in  the  sky  ; 

There's  wisdom  in  jest  sech  a  course,  as  it  would  seem   to  me  — 
Per  there's  lots  of  us  poor  workin'  folks  a  standin'   idly  by, 

Who  wish   now  they  had  taken  some  pointers  from   the  bee. 

I'm   hungerin'   an'   a  thirstin'   to   hear  the  robin's  note 

At  sunset,   on  the  topmost  twig  of  his  favorite  elm   tree  ; 
As  he  carols  forth   his  gladness  as  to  almost  split  his  throat, 

Don't  you  think  he  could  give  pointers  in  praise  to  you  an'  me  ? 
Whene'er  I   hear  a  robin   sing,   I   allus  have  to  smile 

At  the  earnest  way  he  tackles   it  an'   carries  it  along  — 
I   haint  so  fond  of  music,   yet  I   b'lieve   I'd  walk   a   mile 

To  hear  his   "  Peep-kuk-kill-'em-cure-'em-give-'em-physic  "    song. 

I   want  to  see  the  tender  grass  on   sunny  slopes  a  sproutin', 

An'   comin'   up  to  rest  the  eye  from   winter's  robe  of  white, 
An'   hunt  fer  dandelion  greens  an'   slowly  walk   about  in 

Shirt  sleeves  — an'  dream  of  bacon,  which  is  my  heart's  delight; 
Er  else  set  out  of  doors  on  the  lee  side  of  the  woodpile 

An'  watch  the  hens  a  scratchin',  with  their  trim  an'  yeller  legs, 
With  a  sharp   look  out  fer  bugs  ;    an'   I   allus  have  a  good    smile 

As  my  thoughts   mix  with  their  cackle,  of  future  ham  an'  eggs. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  SS 

The  hen,   as  I   have  sized   her  up,   is  a  very  honest  bird  ; 

Her  voice  has  no  great  compass --but  she  has  some  pretty  ways; 
An'   of  all  the  farmyard  songsters  that  ever  I   have  heard, 

1   believe  that   I'm   enamored,   mostly,   of  her  recent  lays  ! 
Just  think   of  it  !    Our  Hawkeye  hens,  when   busily  at  work, 

Increase  our  working  capital   a   million,   every  year ; 
She   attends    no    "  Hen    Conventions  "    an'    was    never    known    to 
shirk, 

While  she  sings  her  modest  anthems  our  hungry  hearts  to  cheer. 

Yes,   I'm    glad  the    winter's    breakin'    an'   the  wild    goose   north   a 
flyin' 

In    his  harrow-shaped    procession,   marked   on  the    softened    sky, 
An'   hear  the  honkin'   note  as  the  day  is  slowly  dyin', 

Tellin'   us  of  flowin'   rivers,   as  he  passes  slowly  by. 
Old   Winter  !    We'll  forgive  you,   an'   fergit  your  frosty  pinchin' 

In  the  joy  of  your  departure  — an'   your  later  meltin'   ways; 
An'    our    hearts    beat    high    with    hope  of    the    pleasures    we'll    be 
sippin', 

When   Nature,   resurrected,  joins  us   in   a  hymn  of  praise. 


So  I'm   longin'  fer  the  spring  time,  with  a  deep  an'  earnest  long  ; 

When  winter's  woes  will  fade  away  an'  flowers  take  their  place  ; 
When    birds  in   woods  and    meadows,  will    cheer    us  with   a  song 

That  will   make  us  all  fergit  we've   met  Sorrow,  face  to  face. 
Old   Earth   is  tipping  to  the  south  to   meet  the  summer's  sun  ; 
"  Old  Glory,"  with  her  starry  folds,  waves  o'er  our  land  to-day  ; 
Have  faith  in  God  the  Father      and  with  each  duty  bravely  done, 

We  need  fear  no  great  disaster  to  our  loved  America. 


56 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


Easter  Daq! 


^  The  swelling  buds  thy  coming  wait ; 

The    puss  willow  with    feath'ry  fronds, 
i:>  Lightly,   in   limpid  streams  and  ponds 
Dip  eager  boughs  with  joy  elate  : 
Oh,   Easter  Day! 
Dear  Easter  Day  ! 

Oh,   Easter  Day  ! 
The  violet  blue,   with  eyes  intent 
Upon   the  shining  track  above, 
Gazes  with  an   unuttered   love, 
To  mark  the  way  our  Savior  went : 

Oh,   Easter  Day  ! 

Dear  Easter  Day  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  57 


A    DREAM. 

I   had  a  funny  dream   last  night  — 

( I  wonder  if  'twas  true  ? ) 
It  came  in  such  a  curious  way, 

That   I   must  tell   it  you. 
An   evening  had   been   spent  in   bliss 

Among  some  maidens  fair, 
With   sparkling  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks, 

And  every  shade  of  hair. 

The  time  how  spent,  you  ask,  my  friend, 

In   such  a  jolly  crowd  ? 
Progressive   Euchre?"    Guess  again. 
"  Whist  ?  "    "  Conversation  loud  ?  " 
Jaws  moved  at  regular  intervals 

'Tis  true,  but  lips  were  dumb  — 
From   cherub   mouths  came  not  a  sound  — 

They  all  were  chewing  gum  ! 

The  girl   I   loved  was  in  the  throng, 

And   soon   I   sought  her  out  — 
We  walked  amid  the  flowers  and  trees, 

And   everywhere,   about ; 
I   told   her  all   my   heart,   and  asked, 
•'Will   you   my  wife  become?" 
She  deeply  sighed  —  she  pressed   my   hand 

But   kept  on   chewing  gum  ! 


58  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

"  Joy  of  my   heart  !  "   I   said,   at  length, 
"  Queen   of   my   soul  !     My   pride  ! 
Breathe  in   my  ear  the  happy  day 

When  you  will   be   my  bride  !  " 
I   waited  answer,   while  my   heart 

Beat  like  a  muffled  drum  : 
She  heaved  an  able-bodied  sigh  — 

And  calmly  chewed   her  gum  ! 


Oh,   name  the  happy  day  !  "   1   cried. 
"  And   let  me  call  thee   mine  ; 
My  fortune  at  thy  feet  I   lay  — 

I   worship  at  thy  shrine  !  " 
My  fervor  seemed  to  startle  her, 

And,  almost  overcome, 
I   kissed   her  mantling  cheek,   while  she 

Continued  chewing  gum  ! 


Oh,  glorious  day,   that  made   me  now 

So  happy  in   my  choice  — 
1   answered  all  the  questions  plump  — 

My  heart  was  in   my  voice. 
She   nodded  an   assent  to  hers  — 

The  preacher  was  struck  dumb  — 
I   hardly  could  believe   my  eyes  — - 

She  still  was  chewing  gum  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


My  dream  then   changed  —  it  seemed  to  me 

That  she  had  passed  away 
To  that  bright  land,  where  sunshine  holds 

An   undisputed  sway. 
The  vision   brightened  as  I   gazed 

Into  the  world  to  come  — 
Lo  !  there  she  stood,  with  hand-picked  saints, 

Forever  chewing  gum  ! 


THE    FAMILY    THOUGHT, 

A  tear  clung  to   her  eyelids  wet ; 

Her  heart  was  all   distraught— 
She'd   quarrelled  with   her  husband,   dear, 

These  souls  with  single  thought. 
He  wished  the  thought  for  base  ball  rules, 

And   she,   on   the  contrary, 
Desired   to  use   it  for  herself, 

In   new  style  millinery ; 
Thus,   often   is  life's  battle  fought 
By   marrying  without  second  thought ! 


60  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


GENERAL    JAMES    M.    TUTTLE. 

The  hero  calmly  sleeps  ; 

Nor  cannon's  roar,   nor  music's  sweetest  breath 
Can   now  disturb  his  slumbers,   while  his  death 

A   nation  sadly  weeps. 

Hero  of  Donelson, 

Iowa,   her  tribute,   lays  upon  thy  grave  ; 
Her  torn  and  war-stained   banners  wave 

Over  her  fallen   son  ! 

Ah,  that  brave  charge  again, 
At  Donelson,   while  a  world   wondering  stood 
At  the  great  gallantry  and   hardihood 

Of   Iowa's   brave   men. 

Hope  of  the   Nation  they, 
As  through   showers  of  leaden   hail   and  shell, 
Never  men   marched  so  bravely,   nor  so  well, 

As  Second   Iowa  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  61 

Up,  higher  !    Higher  still, 

Silently,   but  surely,   they  climb  !    They  mount 
Where  earthworks  frown  and  Glory  deeds  recount, 

Led  by  this  hero's  will. 

First  on  the  earthworks.     Now 
Cheering  to  deeds  of  valor  thy  brave  men  ; 
Earthworks  and  glory  won  together,   when 

Victory  crowned  thy  brow  ! 

So   long  as  sun   upon 

Our  banner  with   stars  undimmed,   shall   light 
With  glints  and    gleams,  so  shall  thy  memory  be  bright 

Hero  of  Donelson  ! 


62  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

Respectfully  dedicated  to  the  Second  Iowa  Infantry. 

Scatter  flowers,   beautiful  flowers, 

On  the  graves 

Of  the  braves  ; 

Sleep  they  sweetly  here,   enbalmed   by  many  tears  ; 
Whose  brave  deeds  grow  brighter  with   the  passing  years, 
As  higher  on  the  scroll   of  fame  each   name  appears, 

Written   in   blood. 

Scatter  flowers,   choice  spring  flowers, 

Where  they  sleep, 

As  we  weep 

Tears  of  gratitude   to  those  who   bravely  wrought 
Out  a  Nation's  destiny  !     How  poor  is  thought 
To  tell  the  great  blessing  to  a  people  fraught 

By  such  sacrifice. 

Cover  them   with  flowers,   unfading  flowers, 

O'er  the  head 

Of   the   dead  ; 

Dying,  that  no  star  upon  our  country's  crest 
Might  be  dimmed   nor  lost.     Heeding  the  high   behest, 
That  one  flag  should  wave  o'er  North,  South,   East  and  West, 

Whate'er  the  cost  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS.  63 

Cover  them   with  flowers  —  Immortelles; 

For  the  dead  tears, 

For  the   living,   cheers  ; 
Ah,   those  heroes  of  Shiloh  and   Donelson, 
Where  waved  first  our  flag  on   rebel   earthworks  won, 
While   a  Nation  watched,   waiting  to  shout,   "  Well   done, 

Brave  boys  in   Blue  !  " 

Scatter  choice  flowers,   Memory's  flowers, 

Every  May, 

In   memory 

Of  those  who,   when   called,   counted   life  not  dear, 
But  laid   it  gladly  down  without  a  fear ; 
While   our  Nation   lives,   shall   we  not  each  year 

Bedeck   their  graves  ? 


JULY. 

Oh,  July  sun,   let  up,   let  up  ; 

Before  you   bake  us  brown, 
Or  drive  us  to  the   lakes  and  woods, 

Far,  far  away  from   town  !  " 
The  sun  said,   with   caloric  smile : 
"  Come,  listen  now,   my  dears ; 
If  I   don't  work   this  month,   what  would 

You  do  for  roasting  ears  ?  " 


64  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


TO    MARGARET. 

Merry,   little  dancing  feet, 

Eyes  with  tint  of  heaven's  blue, 
With   her  little  ways  so  sweet, 

Joyous  all  the  long  day  through  ; 
Sometimes  wayward,   sometimes  gay, 

As  the   notion  takes   my  pet, 
Smiles  now  chasing  frowns  away 

From  the  face  of  Margaret. 

Winsome  little  lass,   may  thou, 

Guileless   in  thy  glee  and  fun, 
Ne'er  to   Sorrow's  mandate  bow, 

Nor  walk  thorny   paths  upon. 
Roses  blooming  at  thy  feet, 

With  the  dew  of  heaven   wet, 
Are  to   me   not  half  so  sweet 

As  my  little  Margaret. 

Oh,   Thou,   who  dost  guard  and  guide 

Little  ones  through  sun  and  shade, 
Keep   her  ever  at  Thy   side  ; 

Let  her  hand   in   Thine  be   laid  ! 
May  the  sunshine  she   imparts 

Ne'er  be  dimmed  by  a  regret ; 
Loved   is  she  by   many   hearts ; 

Little  fair  haired   Margaret. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  65 


FREE   CURRENCY. 

Do   not  quarrel  ;  do   not  fret ; 
Not  the  thing  to  do,   you   bet ; 
Better  take  a  sight  of  chaff, 
Pass  it  by  with  quiet  laugh, 
Than  work  yourself  into  a  pet 
And   be  caught  in   passion's   net  ! 

Do   not  quarrel  ;  do   not  scold  — 
Smiles  are  silver  ;   laughs  are  gold  ! 
What  a  grand  world  this  would   be 
With   such   a  free  currency  ! 
Better  smile  with  eyelids  wet, 
Than  fall   into  passion's  net  ! 

Do  not  quarrel   nor  complain  — 
Life's  made  up  of  sun  and  rain  ; 
Touch   a  life  with   rain  or  snow  — 
How  the  sweet  heart-flowers  grow  ! 
There's  peace  for  those  who  do   not  get 
Tangled   up   in   passion's   net. 

Do   not  murmur  or  repine  ; 
Hope  !     'Tis  like  a  rare  old  wine  ! 
Hope  !    There's  plenty  and  to  spare  ; 
Hope  !     'Tis  rising  everywhere  ! 
Better,   though,   its  star  should   set, 
Than  fall   into  passion's  net  ! 


66 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


"Ring  out,  ye  bells,  on  Christmas  Day." 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  67 


CHRISTMAS    BELLS. 

Ring  out,   ye  bells,   on  Christmas   Day, 

In   happy,  joyous  strain  ; 
Let  all   the  world   with   them   rejoice, 

For  the  day  has  come  again, 
When  to  a  waiting  world  there  came, 

The  long  looked,   wished  for  birth 
Of  One  who  came  of  low  estate, 

To  bless  the  expectant  earth. 

Bring  holly  berries,   crimson   red, 

Pine,  fir  and   mistletoe, 
Let  all  the  children's  hearts  rejoice, 

For  in  the  Golden   Long  Ago, 
He  was  born,   the  Wonderful, 

Counselor,   on  earth  to  dwell, 
Walking  Judean  streets  about, 

God   with   us  —  Emanuel. 

I've  gazed   upon  the  starry  host, 

And   wondered  which  the  star 
God   honored  thus,   to   be  the  guide 

Of  Wise   Men  from   afar. 
How  bright  it  must  have  shone  that  night, 

Conscious  that  its  moving  ray, 
Would   lead   the  seekers  to  the  place 

Where  the   infant  Jesus  lay  ! 


68  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

And  then   its  work   was  just  half  done, 

For  now,   on   Bethlehem's  plain, 
The  shepherds  saw  a  wondrous  sight, 

And  heard  the  grand  refrain  : 
"  Peace  on   Earth,  good  will  to   men  ;  " 

Sung  by  the  Angel   Choir, 
While  all  the  sky  was  now  ablaze 

With   bright,   celestial  fire. 

"  Fear  not ;  for  unto  you   is  born," 

The  lingering  angel  said, 
"  Christ,   the   Lord,   in   Bethlehem, 

And   in  a  manger  laid  !  " 
Then   lo  !  the  star  to  them   appeared 

At  once,   with  cheering  ray, 
And  stood  above  the  stable,   where 
The  sleeping  Savior  lay. 

Oh,   Earth,   bring  forth  thy  frankincense, 

Thy  myrrh,   thy  hoarded  gold, 
Thy  adoration  for  this   King, 

Whose  coming  was  foretold  ! 
Not  all   the  wealth  that  thou  canst  bring, 

Nor  treasures  yet  to   be, 
Can   equal    in    Love's  balances, 

The  love   He  has  for  thee  ! 

The  star,  and  what  became  of  it, 
Your  wond'ring  hearts  would  ask  ? 

Perhaps  God  sent  it  to  its  place, 
Having  fulfilled  its  task. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


69 


May  be,   in   His  great   love  for  us, 

He  caused   it  to  grow  dim, 
That  we  might   look   beyond  the  star, 

And   worship  only   Him  ! 

Oh,  glorious  star  !    Oh,   glorious  thread 

Which   binds  us  all   in   love  ! 
Never  before,   such   Christmas  Gift 

From   loving  hands  above  ; 
So  may  our  hearts  be  full  of  joy, 

With  music,  gifts  and  mirth, 
Rejoicing  in  this  day  of  days 

Blessed   by  a  Savior's  birth. 


70  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


YOU    KNOW    IT. 

To  smile  is  better  than  to  frown, 
For  smoothing  ruffled  feelings  down. 

You  know   it  ! 

Then  why  lament  at  every   ill  ? 
Is  not  the  old  world  rolling  still, 
And  sunshine  kissing  every  hill  ? 

You   know   it  ! 

Men   can't  redeem  the  minutes  past, 
Nor  lift  the  shadows  on  them   cast ; 

You   know   it  ! 

But  on  life's  road  of  weariness, 
As  footsore,  tired  pilgrims  press, 
A  warm  hand-clasp  will  often  bless  ; 

You   know   it  ! 

Ambitions  never  reach  their  goal  ; 
Nor  fill  the  hunger  of  the  soul  ; 

You  know  it  ! 

I   knew  a  king  —  a  conqueror,   too, 
Who  sat  and  cried  with   loud   boo-hoo, 
Not  having  further  work  to  do  ! 

You   know   it  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS.  71 

Man   never  reached   the  highest  shelf, 
By   living  solely  for  himself  ; 

You   know   it  ! 

King  Solomon,  with  all  his  pride 
Of  wealth,  and  many  wives  beside, 
Confessed   he  was  not  satisfied  ! 

You  know   it  ! 

One  day  a  herald   will   appear, 

And   leave  a   message  all   must  hear ; 

You   know   it  ! 

Then,  very  softly,   one  will  tread, 
Where  lowly,  lowly  lies  your  head, 
And  say,  "  He  loved  me  !     He  is  dead  !  " 

You   know  it  ! 


MISAPPREHENSION. 

He  read  the  book  with  great  surprise 

And  said,   "  How  she  abused   her  eyes  ! 
She  threw  them   at  the  frescoed   ceiling ; 

They  fell   as  if  they  had   no  feeling ; 
Then  rested  them   on  the  cool   lagoon, 

And   brought  them   back,   ah,   none  too  soon 
For  with   a  cry  and  glad  embrace, 

They  fastened   on   her  lover's  face  !  " 


72  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


A    THANKSGIVING    SUGGESTION. 

The  parson   had  preached  from  the  beautiful  text, 

"  Little  children,   love  one  another ;  " 

And  he  told  of  the  mansions  now  being  prepared 

By  Jesus,  the  elder  brother. 
And  he  spoke  of  the   River  of  Life,  bright  and  clear. 

And  the  songs  the  redeemed  will  sing  •, 
And  the  palms  they  will  wave  and  the  crowns  they  will  cast 

At  the  feet  of  Jesus,  the  King. 

« 

And  oh,  best  of  all,  the  friends  we  have  loved 

Not  lost     but  just  gone  before, 
Who  are  waiting  to  greet  us  with  fondest  embrace, 

When  we  reach  that  evergreen  shore  : 
Where  arms  will  be  twined  in  a  loving  embrace 

Round  the  dear  ones  we've   loved   in  this   life  ; 
Where  children  as  brothers  and  sisters  will  stand. 

With  united   husband  and  wife. 

And   he  spoke  of  the  love  which  Jesus  imparts 
That  he  smiles  from  his  bright  home  on   high. 

When   we  show  to  each   other  the   love  which   he  showed  — 

For  a  lost  world  to  suffer  and  die. 
•  Oh,  that  wonderful   love  !  ''   the  good  parson  said, 

"  If  you  have  it,   my  sister,   my  brother, 

Let  it  flow  in  good  works  ;  for  as  Christ  has  loved  you. 
So  ought  ye  to  love  one  another  !  " 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  73 

Now  Widower  Gripem   had   lingered  behind  ; 
"  Oh,  parson,"   he  said,   "  tell   me  where 
That  beautiful  place  is.    I   long  much  to  know, 

For  I   feel   'twould  be  sweet  to  be  there  !  " 
Next  Thursday's  Thanksgiving,"  the  good  parson  said, 
"  Now  there  is  our  poor  Widow  Gray  ; 
Her  larder  is  empty  ;   her  hearthstone   is  cold  — 

She  should  have  a  good  dinner  that  day." 

Send  up  coal  and  potatoes,  with  flour  and  rice  : 

A  turkey  for  roasting  — and  tea, 
Cranberries  for  sauce,   sugar-plums  for  the   boys  — 

And  oh,   how  happy  they'll   be  ! 
And  then   in  the  evening  be  sure  that  you  go  — 

For  with  propriety  surely  you  may  — 
And  read  one  of  David's  most  comforting  psalms, 

Then  kneel  with  the  family  and  pray." 

The  advice  was  well  taken  —  and  oh,  such  a  prayer, 

And  oh,  such  a  vision  of  bliss  ! 
For  peace,   like  a  river,  stole  into  his  soul-- 

And  the  widow's  hand  stole  into  his  ! 
When  robins  were  singing  —  as  you  may  have  guessed, 

In  the  spring  time,   when  the  weather  was  bright, 
A   wedding  fee  fell   to  the  good   parson's  share-- 

Now,  pray,  don't  you  think   he  was  right? 


74  THE   RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


LOVELY    MAY. 

She  stands  in  Summer's  gateway, 

Lovely  May, 
With  apron  full  of  blossoms, 

Bright  and  gay  ; 

Bringing  showers,   bright  spring  flowers, 
Birds  singing  in  green  bowers, 
Making  sweet  the  passing  hours, 

Every  day. 

Earth   is  brighter  for  thy  coming. 

Gentle  May  ; 
Our  hearts  lighter,  faces  brighter. 

For  thy  stay  . 

For  thou  wilt  our  hearts  prepare 
For  thy  sister's  coming,  rare 
June,  with  rose-garlanded  hair, 

On  the  wav  ! 


THE    FLOOD.— 1892. 

Oh,   month  of  buds  and  roses, 

Of  love  and   many  flowers, 
When  Iowa,   her  bridal  robes 

Puts,   'mid  sun  and  showers. 
She  greets  you  with  her  moistened  eye 

Believing  that  there  still  is 
Some  chances  yet  for  growing  crops, 

As  well  as  water  lilies  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS.  77 


THE    SUNDAY    SCHOOL'S    FAREWELL. 


Read  at  the  Farewell  Banquet,  given  by  the  Central  Presbyterian  Church  and  con 
gregation  of  Des  Moines,  to  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Howard  Agnew  Johnston,  November  16,  1893. 


We  all  know  just  how  hard  it  is  to  say  the  word  "  Good  Bye  ;  " 
And   "  Farewell,"    softly    spoken,  brings  the  moisture   to  the  eye  ; 
Often,   a  close   hand-clasp,   while  the   head   is  turned  away, 
Will  express  the  feelings  better  than  any  word  that  one  could  say. 

Speech  may  sometimes  be  silver,  when  the  heart  is  light  and  free, 
But  to-night  the  golden  silence  would  be  better  still  for  me  ; 
But,  as  you  have  insisted  on  a  speech  from   me  in  rhyme, 
My  coinage  will   be  very  free  and  silvery  in   its  chime. 

"  The  Sunday  School."  That  is  the  theme  I  am  to  talk  about ; 
"  Our  Sunday  School."  Dear  friends,  1  think,  without  a  doubt, 
You  know  that  in  this  glorious  work  for  years  I've  borne  a  part, 
And  it's  easy,  quite,  to  speak  of  things  that  lie  close  to  one's 
heart. 

I   sometimes   let  my   memory  travel   back  to   '55, 
To  the  ancient  church  on  Fourth  street  —  a  busy  little  hive; 
Where  teachers  taught  the  children,   and   proved   by   earnest  tones, 
That  the  hive  was  full  of  working  bees,  with  few,  if  any  drones. 


78  THE   RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

Whene'er  I  think  of  those  old  times  my  heart  is  strangely  stirred. 
And   I  always  take  my  hat  off  when   I   think  of  Father  Bird, 
And  his  companion   in  the  good    work,  his  true  and    loving  wife, 
Who  still   holds  up  the  banner  he  fought  under  all  his  life. 

And  what  do  Presbyterians  owe  such  women  and  such   men, 
For  our  lamp,  now  burning  brightly,  which  flickered  feebly  then  ? 
Oh,  answer  it,   my  people,  upon  the  bended   knee, 
That  our  lamp  may  burn  so  brightly,  that  all  the  world  may  see  ! 

Our  Sunday  School.     How  large  'tis  grown  !    It  makes  me  ancient 

seem. 

As  I   look  at  its  beginnings.    It's  almost  like  a  dream, 
To  see  the  girls  and  boys,  who  have  sat  upon   my   knees, 
Wearing  their  gold-bowed   spectacles  and   sporting  families  ! 

And  speaking  of  our  girls  and  boys  of  marriageable  ages, 
Why  not  let  the  old  historian  record  upon  his  pages 
That  you'll  follow  their  example,  while  there  yet  is  room. 
And  give  your  Pastor,  ere  he  goes,  a  matrimonial  boom  ? 

It  does  not  seem  to  be  the  thing  to  cheat  him  of  his  fee, 
Leaving  his  wife  to   vainly  ask,   "  What  shall   the  harvest  be  ?  " 
1  am   inclined  to  blame  the  boys,  for  such  a  state  of  things  ; 
For  lack  of  courage,  or,   mayhap,  a  lack  of  wedding  rings  ! 

For  our  girls  are  so  well  grounded  in  the  Scriptures  that  they  can 
Give  an  answer  very  promptly  to  every  asking  man  ! 
Our   Sunday  School   is  sorry  —  but    there's   sweetness  in   the   cup, 
At  the  thought  of  how  our  preacher  will  stir  Chicago  up  ; 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS.  79 

For  after   searching   all    the  country,  this    big   church  had  to  join 
In  the  calling  of  a  pastor  from  the  city  of  Des  Moines. 
We  bow  to  fate  most  gracefully  and  think   it  for  the  best, 
That  Chicago  should  pay  homage  to  talent  farther  west. 

We  will  miss  him   in  the  songs  we've  sung,   in  which   he  bore  a 

part ; 

But  he'll  never  get  so  far  away  but  they'll  echo  in  his  heart. 
We  will  not  say  farewell  just  now,  but  sing  the  sweet  refrain, 
"  God  be  with  you,  God  be  with  you,  until  we  meet  again." 


PRECAUTION. 

My  dear,"   he  said  in  gentle  tones, 

"  I   cannot,   as  expected, 

Buy  for  you  the  seal  skin  sacque 

Which  you  have  just  selected. 
You  see  I'm  getting  on   in  years, 

And   say   it  with   a  sigh, 
That  old  men  are,  as  Solomon  said, 

Afraid   of  all   things  high  ! " 


80  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    KICKER'S    FUNERAL. 

A   kicker  was  kicking  his  very  last  kick 
For  he'd  kicked,  ( it  was  one  of  his  ways, » 

At  his  friends,  at  his  neighbors,  his  fate  and  his  town. 
And  thus,  finally  ended  his  days. 

It  was  not  his  sudden  departure  at  all. 

That  saddened   everyone's  face  ; 
But  as  they  remembered   his  acts  while  on  earth. 

Felt  sorry  for  "  'tother  place  !  " 

So  they   buried   him   out   in   the  wild,   wild  woods, 

In  a  deep,  deep  hole  in  the  ground, 
Where  the  straddle-bug  straddled,  and  the  grasshopper  hopped. 

And   the  tumble-bug  walked  over  his   mound. 

But  some  friends  who  admired  his  ways  in  this  life. 

In   numbers  then  gathered  around. 
To  descant  on  his  virtues  and  moisten  with  tears 

Of  sorrow,  the  newly  made  mound. 

When  remarks  were   in   order,   a  wiggle-worm   came. 

And   said,   as   he  wiggled   about 
This  brother  of  mine,   when   a   tight   place   was  found. 

Always    wiggled  so  carefully  out  !  " 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  81 

A   raven  which   listened  with   countenance  grave, 

As  he  sat  on  the  limb  of  an  oak, 
With  awe-stricken  voice  said,   "  I  part  with  regret, 

With  him  who  first  taught  me  to  croak  !  " 

A  sorrowing  mule  then  discoursed  to  the  crowd  :  — 
"  My  friends,   it  makes  me  quite  sick, 
To  part  with  this  brother  and  teacher  as  well  ; 
For  'twas  he  who  first  taught  me  to  kick  !  " 

A  hog  which  was  rooting  a  little  way  off, 

Came  forward  and  said  with  deep  feeling : 
For  the  first  time  in  life  1   am   mourning  for  one 

Who  surpassed  me  in  grunting  and  squealing  !  " 

A  crawfish  came  cautiously  out  of  his  hole, 

And  exclaimed  after  some  reflection  — 
Alas  my  brother  !    For  years  and  for  years, 

We've  progressed  in  the  same  direction  !  " 

These  eloquent  speakers  then  glided  away, 

Having  spoken  their  pieces  like  sages ; 
And  the  "  Kicker,"   if  he  is  not  asked  for  a  cent, 

Will  slumber  in  peace  there  for  ages  ! 


82  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


RETURN    OF    THE    PRODIGALS. 

We've  jest  got  back  to  Iowa      tell  you,  we've  had   it  rough; 
Of  hunting  up  new  countries,  we've  had  jest  about  enough  ; 
You  bet,   me  and  Mirandy  is  a  pretty  seedy  Jot, 
But  it's  good  sometimes  to  thank    the    Lord    fer  what   ye  hav'n't 
got! 

We  kinder  got  dissatisfied  with   Iowa  years  ago  ; 
Mirandy's  lungs  were  powerful  weak  to  stand  the  wind  and  snow  ; 
An'  while  we    was  a  thinkin'  there  came  along  that  drought, 
While  Mirandy  kept  a  coughin'  and  a  talkin'   'bout  the  south. 

We'd    heerd    that    Kansas   wus  the  land    where    milk    and    honey 

flowed 

So  free,   that  we  could   dip   it   up,   fer  anything  we   knowed  \.r 
With  land  jest  fer  the  askin',    and  climit  throwed   in  free  — 
Mirandy  cleared    her  throat   and    said.   "  That's   jest  the   place  fer 

me  !" 

So  we  moved  down  into  Kansas,   in  eighteen  eighty-eight, 

And  built  a  little  sod   house  and  settled  down  to  wait 

Till  our  corn  was  in  the  roastin'  ear.    There  came  with   hummin' 

sound, 
An  army  of  grasshoppers     an'  they  et  to  the  ground  ! 


'She  coughed  a  penitential  cough  an'  whispered  —  'Iowa!'" 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


"So  we  moved  down  into  Kansas." 

Next  year  we   planted   corn   agin.     Tell   yer,   upon   my  word, 
A  hot  wind  swept  the  State  and  left  our  crop  like  Jonah's  gourd  — 
Withered   in   a  single   night  !    Tell   ye,   we  had   the  blues, 
And  wondered   what  Miranda's  pap  would  say  about  the  news. 

He'd  wanted   us  to  come  back    home,  and    said,  without  a  doubt 
He  could  feed   us   cheaper  there,   than   by   sendin'   projuce  out ; 
While  we  was  a   hesitatin'   'bout  what  we'd   better  do, 
We  had  a  revelation  which  thrilled  us  through  and  through. 

We  went  to  preachin'   meetin'   'bout  fourteen   miles  away 
An'   I'll   not  forget  that  sermon   up  to   my  dyin'   day  ; 
The  preacher  told  about  a  boy  who  left  his  father's  roof 
With   all  his  goods  and  chattels,  for  his  own  use  and  behoof. 


Coin'  west  to  speckerlate  he  soon  became  dead  broke ; 

Then  friends,   like  cash  or  bonds  and    sich,  all  vanished  like  the 

smoke  ; 

He   "  took   a  tumble  to   himself,"   after  he'd   had   a  cry, 
And  said,   "  My  father's  hired   men  have  better  grub  than   I  !  " 


86 


THE    HIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


So  home  went,   fn   want  and   rags  he  could   not  well   conceal 
Had   royal   welcome,   interspersed  with  fiddlin'      and  veal! 
The  preacher  paused  a  minit    -then,   with  voice  uplifted  high, 
Said,   "  Return,    ye  prodigals,  return,  for  wherefore    will    you    die, 

» 

By  eatin'   husks,  that  don't  digest,  and  wearin'   rags  of  sin  ?  " 
My  eyes  were  over-brimmin'  an'   mv  head   begin  to  spin  ; 
I   turned   'round  to  Mirandy,  to  see  what  she  would  say  ; 
She  coughed  a  penitential  cough,  an'  whispered      "  Iowa  !  " 


Her  pap  sent  on   some  money,  an'   she  sold  her  weddin'   ring, 
An'   we  jest  lit  out  fer  Iowa,  where  corn   is  allus  king  ! 
Mirandy's  cough  ?    You  think  it's  strange,  and,  curious,  perhaps  — 
She  hasn't  barked  a  single  time,  sence  gittin'   back  to  pap's. 

Change  of  climit?    I  guess  not      I   rayther  am   inclined 

To  think  that  'stid  of  climit,  she  has  a  change  of  mind  ! 

We   left  our  "  good   bye  "   on   the  walls  of  the  house  we  couldn't 

sell 
"  No    coal,    no    wood,    no    water     and    jest    a    half   a    mile    from 

h     I  !  " 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS.  87 


AMERICA'S    CROWN. 

Let  the  rose  bloom  for  Old   England, 

Shamrock   for   Ireland  grow, 
For  Scotland   her  bold   thistle, 

France,   the   lily,   white  as   snow  ; 
But  as  for  proud  America, 

Where   Plenty  fills    the   horn, 
And   pours  out  an   unending  stream, 

Crown   her  with   Golden   Corn  ! 
In   hopes  of  coming  years  to   see 

Her  crownings  will  far  richer  be  ! 


88  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


TO    A    NOVEMBER    DANDELION. 


NOTE. —  Tacitus  Hussey,  ihe  poet,  was  met  on  the  street  yesterday,  wearing  in 
his  button-hole  a  beautiful  dandelion.  This  flower  was  picked  in  the  high  school 
yard  yesterday,  a  most  peculiar  time  of  the  year  for  such  a  growth.  A  poem  on 
the  rare  occurrence  may  be  expected.— Iowa  Slate  Register,  November  16,  1894. 


And  dost  thou  bloom,  dear  little  flower  of  May, 

When  the  swift-winged  bird.  glad,   southward  flies, 
When   bees   have   left  the  clover ;  when   the  day 

Is  veiled   in   smoke,   and   cold   the  Autumn   skies? 
How  sweet  of  thee.  dear  star-faced  Taraxacum, 

To  dare  the  dangers  of  the  snow  and  frost ; 
Braving  the  season  of  the  Chrysanthemum, 

And   show   thy   smiling  face  at  any  cost  ! 

Dear,  bright  dandelion  !    Thy  name,  whoever  gave, 

Unrolls  thy  character  to  us  as  written  scroll  ; 
"  Dandy  "   suggests  thy  rich  attire,   and   "  lion,"   brave  ; 

So,   "  Dandelion,"  one  sweet,  euphonious  whole. 
Dear  waif  !    Knowest  thou  not  that  flower  and   bird 

Have  flown  and  died,   by  wise  laws  of  Nature  fixed  ? 
Soundless  the  woods      nor  "cuckoo's"   note  is  heard, 

Since  the  great  "  snow  storm  "  of  November  sixth  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS.  89 

Untimely   bloom  !     1   take  thee  to   my   heart 

In   love,   remembering  happier  scenes  ; 

•hungering  world  supposes  it  the  part 

Of  dandelions  to  bloom   in  spring — "  for  greens  !  " 
Oh,   bride  of  May,  with   hoar  frost  for  thy  bed  ! 

Engraven   on   our  hearts,   thy   lessons  given  : 
In  weather  cold  or  hot,   may  it  be  said, 

We  did  our  best  as  in  the  sight  of  heaven  ! 


A    SURPRISE. 

I  sought  for  Pleasure  far  and  wide  ; 

"  Oh,    Happiness  !  "    I   said  : 

Come  share  my.  lot ;  be  thou  my  bride, 

And   let  us  quickly  wed  !  " 
Just  then  stern   Duty  caught  my  eye, 

And  drew  me  to  her  side 
And  said  :     "  Fair  Pleasure  soon  will  die, 

But  I  will  e'er  abide." 
Then   I  wed  Duty — and  eftsoons  I  saw 

That  I   had   Pleasure  for  a  mother-in-law  ! 


90  THE    RIVEH    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


MEMORY'S    SONG. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Wabash,  so  bright,  I  was  born. 
In  a  cabin  of  logs,   'mid   pumpkins  and  corn, 
My  heart  turns  back  as  my  birthplace  I   view, 
For  I   love  her  grand  forests  and  people     don't  you  ? 

CHORUS. 

Then  sing,   Hoosiers,  sing,  with  hearts  glad  and  free, 
For  with  each  rolling  year  she  seems  dearer  to  me. 

With  hearts  full  of  good  cheer,  we've  gathered  to-day, 
To  exchange  our  kind  greetings  and   in  gratitude  lay 
A  wreath  of  affection  and  love,  twined  about, 
For  the  State  that  has  sent  so  many  good   people  out. 

We  love  thy  old  forests,  dear  State  of  our  birth, 
The  tallest  and  thickest  of  any  on   earth  ; 
Thy  hills  and  thy  valleys,  and  rivers  so  clear, 
And   all   thy  old   memories  we'll   ever  hold   dear. 

If  you  take  bright  sea  shell  from  its  home  on  the  lea. 
Wherever  it  goes  it  will   sing  of  the   sea  ; 
So  we,   like  the  sea  shells,  thus  greet  you  to-day, 
And  sing  for  our  old   home,  forever  and  aye. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  91 


HOOSIER    ECHOES. 

I   reckon   I   have  heard,  durin'   my  long  term  of  life, 

Most  all  the  music  nature  has  in  store, 
From  a  Whippo'rwill's  lamentin'  to  a  brass  band's  noisy  strife, 

The  Guinea  hen  and  cyclone's  fearful  roar. 
It  is  only  when  my   mem'ry  goes  a  calahootiri'  back 

To  the  Indianny  forests,  grand  and  free, 
That  there's   jest  one    missin'    card    from  out  of  mem'ry's  pack  — 

The  hog  call,   "  Pig-o-o-e-e,   Pig-o-o-e-e,   Pig-o-o-e-e  !  " 

My  !    How  a  feller's  mem'ry  gits  back  to  them  old  days, 

When  the  woods  were  all  aglow  with   Nature's  tints, 
On  the  crisp  an'  frosty  mornin's,  when  the  mists  began  to  raise, 

An'   the  coolin'   winds  of  autumn   gave  us  hints 
That  old  winter  was  a  comin'  ;  but  near  a  big  corn  pile, 

Stood  an  artist,  with  a  voice  like  soundin'   sea, 
Who  woke  the  mornin'  echoes,  and  all  sleepers  for  a  mile, 

With  his  loud   "  Pig-o-o-e-e,   Pig-o-o-e-e,   Pig-o-o-e-e  !  " 

Then,   mebbe,   'cross  the  clearin',  would  come  the  ringin'   sound, 

Which  trembled  on  the  circumambient  air, 
Where  a  neighbor  was  a  callin'  to  all  the  country  round, 

An'   announcin'   to   his  hogs  that  he  was  there  ! 


92  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

Then,  one  by  one,   his  neighbors  took   up  the  glad  refrain 

In  chorus  grand,   it  allus  seemed  to  me  ; 
An'   with  full   inflated   lungs,  they  echoed  back  again. 

The  well-known  cry,   "  Pig-o-o-e-e,    Pig-o-o-e-e,   Pig-o-o-e-e  !  " 

An'   the  hogs  !     You'd   oughter  seen   'em.  as  with   one  accord   they 
broke 

For  the  feedin'   places,  gruntin'  as  they  ran, 
A  crowdin',   an'   a  pushin'.   an'   a  squealin'   like  some  folk 

Who   sometimes  lead   the  office-seek  in'   van  ! 
They're  music-lovin'  critters,  them   Indianny  swine. 

An'   hog  callers  there  are  allus   in  demand  ; 
Their  voices  are  their   fortunes,  an'  they  are  artists  in  their  line. 

For  'tis  music,  ears  an'   stomach,   understand. 

When  the  sun,  through  haze  and  smoke,  blotted  out  the  mornin' 
stars, 

From   log  cabin,   mayhap,  stepped  a  maiden  fair. 
With   milkpail  on  her  arm,  trippin'  to  the  pastur'   bars. 

While  the  mornin'   breeze  toyed   idly  with   her  hair ; 
An'   to  the   "  pig-o-o-e-e  "   cry   she'd   add   her  treble   notes. 

I  While  the  meek-eyed  cows  their  heads  expectant  toss  ;  i 
With   melody  as  sweet  as  e'er  came  from   robins'  throats, 

She'd  carol  forth,   "  Sook-boss.  Sook-boss,  Sook-boss  !  " 

There's  professors  in  our  schools,  who  read   Latin    books  all  day, 

And   talk   in   Greek   to  students  at  their  work. 
Who  could  not  call   "  pig-o-o-e-e  "   in  an  enticin'  way 

Ef  their  families  was  a  sufferin'  fer  pork  ! 
An'  there's  graduatin'    women  all  over  our  Hawkeye  State. 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS.  93 

Whose  education  caused  their  parents  loss, 

Who  speak  of  cows  as  "  wild-eyed  critters,"  and,  oh,  sad  to  relate, 
Know   nothing  of  the  music  of  "  Sook-boss  !  " 

I  git  so  tarnal  tired  of  brass  bands,  an'   soundin'   bells, 

Piano  jinglin's,   mandolins  and  sich, 
That  I   long  for  quiet  rest  in   Nature's  wooded  dells,— 

Or  a  mountain  top  — I'm  not  a  carin'   which  ! 
There  comes  to   me   in   dreams  —  leastwise,   when   I   can   sleep  — 

Sound  of  bells  of  purest  silver,   purged   of  dross  ; 
An'   it  allus  takes  the  form,   in   its  sweet,  resistless  sweep, 

Of  the  musical   "  pig-o-o-e-e  "   and   "  sook-boss  !  " 


RISING    GENIUS. 

A   habit,    Ebenezer  had, 

Of  sleeping  late  of  mornings  ; 
And  this  he'd  do  in  spite  of  fate, 

And  many  wifely  warnings. 
She  gave  him  yeast  cakes  well  disguised. 

As  that  idea  seemed  to  seize  her, 
And  had  no  trouble  after  that 

To   "  raise  her   Ebenezer  !  " 


94  THE    RIVEH    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


JUBILEE    YEAR. 

Well,   this  is    "  jub'lee  year"    for   sure --see  how  they're  coming 

back 

To  Iowa,  the  garden  spot,  where  there's  never  any  lack 
Of  food  for  every  hungry  man  —  no  questioning  'bout  creed 
Our  Iowa  stands  with  hands  outstretched  to  give  to  all  who  need. 

And   "  Party  Prodigals  "  there  are,  who,  catching  the  refrain 
Of  harmony  in  the  G.   O.   P.,  are  flocking  back  again  ; 
The  funniest  thing  about  it  all,   is.  without    a  doubt. 
The  honest  look  they  all  put  on,  when  they  say,  "  we've  not  been 
out  !  " 

There  was  onc't  a  drunken  fellow  riding  on  a  coach's  top  ; 
It  gave  a  lurch,   he  lost  his  head  and  took  another  drop  ; 
Rising  with  drunken  dignitv  said,   with   'pologetic  cough  : 
"  1   'sposed  the  darned  old  thing  upset      er  I  wouldn'ter  got  off  !" 

The  old  "  wheel  horses  "  coming   back  and  hitching  to  the  cart, 
Are  hints  to  us,  the  younger  ones,  that  we  must  do  our  part ; 
You  bet  that  we  will  do  it,   too,   remembering  well  that  they, 
In  years  gone  by,  have  "  borne  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  !  " 

I'm  sure  it  is  not  very  strange,  when  our  stomachs  get  askew. 
That  we  see  all  objects  through  a  glass,  deeply  and  densely  blue  ! 
Our  livers  get  to  "  cutting  up,"  and  thus  our  brain  befogs, 
And  say  our  country's  "  going  to  the  everlasting  dogs  !  " 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS.  9S 

And  then   again,   we  all  get  tired   of  everlasting  grind  ; 

Doing  just  as  the  deacon  did,  which   I   have  in  mind  — 

His  preacher  found  him  "  biling  drunk,"  and  asked,  "  Why,  what 

is  this?  " 
Said  the  deacon  with  asperity,   "  I'll  tell  you  how   it  is  — 

"  I've  served   the   Lord  for  forty  years,  without  a  cent  of  pay, 

And   I    kinder   calculated  that  I've  earned   a  holiday  !  " 

Well,   maybe  that's  the  way  with  us  — but  now  we've  "had  our 

whirl," 
We'll  step  into  the  ranks  again    our  banners  to  unfurl  ; 

For  now  you   see  we're  satisfied  and  willing  to  return, 

And    join    you    in    the    conflict,    "  while    the    lamp    holds    out   to 

burn  !  " 

For  here  of  office  provender  there  is  a  fearful   lack, 
And    like  the    wife    of    Lot    we've    been    for    sometime   "  looking 

back  !  " 

With   "  Old  Glory  "  floating  o'er  us,  which  made  the  rebels  flee, 
And  marked   Bold  Sherman's    pathway  from   Atlanta  to  the    sea- 
Victory  will  crown  our  flag,  and  you  bet  we  will  be  there, 
To    make    a    modest    mention    that    "  Me    and    Betsey    killed    the 
Bear  !  " 


96  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


A    SPRING    BEAUTY. 

Hey,  little  lily  girl  ! 
Has  mamma  turned  you  out  to  grass, 
Where  breezes  fan  you  as  they  pass, 
And  sun  can  kiss  you,  little  lass  ? 

Hey,  little  lily  girl  ! 

Hey,   little  lily  girl  ! 
Were  I  the  sun,   I'd  kiss  your  head, 
And  tint  your  cheeks  with  dainty  red, 
And  paint  your  lips  like  scarlet  thread 

Hey,   little  lily  girl  ! 

Hey,   little  lily  girl  ! 
Were  I   the  breeze,  with  fingers  bold, 
I'd  tangle  up  your  locks  of  gold, 
And  hear  your  mamma  gently  scold  ; 

Hey,   little  lily  girl  ! 

Hey,   little  lily  girl  ! 
Were  I  the  smiling,  distant  skies, 
I'd  come  to  earth,  with  glad  surprise, 
To  borrow  azure  from  your  eyes  ; 

Hey,   little  lily  girl  ! 

Hey,  little  lily  girl  ! 
If  you  were  mine,   how  would  I   pray, 
To  feel  your  hand  clasps  every  day, 
Lest,  on  bright  wings,  you'd  fly  away 

Hey,  little  lily  girl  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  99 


THE    GOOD    OLD    TIMES. 

I   reckon  we're  agoin'  to  hev  them  good  old  times  agin, 
An'   git  back   to  furst  principles.     So   I    hev   kinder  bin 
A  polishin'   up   my   mem'ry,   and   a  gittin'    my  sails  set, 
So's   me  an'   Mirandy   kin   sail   on,   without  a  gittin'   wet. 

There  comes  a  lot  of  mem'rys,  a  crowdin'   up  by  score, 

A  standin'   just  like  soldiers,    in   ranks  before  yer  door, 

As  you  set  there,  with  pipe  alight  —  you  want  to  ast  'em   in  — 

The  hull   blamed   kit  an'    bilin' — an'   keep   'em   ef  you  kin. 

I   like  to  think  of  good  old  times,   'bout  fifty  years  ago, 
When    I   wore    blue    jeans,   for    service,   an'    didn't   keer   fer  show, 
Ner  frip'rees,  sech  as  we   hev  now-   ner  walk   in  fashion's  way  — 
Cuttin'    Indianny   cord   wood   at  fifty   cents  a  day, 

An'   take  yer  pay  in   bacon  —  or,   maybe,  good  corn  meal — 
Walkin'   homeward,   in   the  gloamin',  how  good  it  made  you  feel  ; 
With   good   corn   bread  an'   bacon  —  or   "rye  an'   injun' "   mixed  — 
You   could  jest  knock   hunger  end    ways,    if  that  was    how  you're 
fixed. 

The   "  dollar  of  our  daddies  "   was  skeerce   in   them   ere  days, 
An'   when   we   used   to  git  one,   'twas  one  of  our  sly  ways 
To  hide   it   in  the  shuck   bed,   er  put  underneath 
The   hearthstone,   to   keep   it  handy  fer  cuttin'   baby  teeth, 


100  THE   RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

Er  lend   it  round  the  settlement,  to  some  onlucky  neighbor, 

Who  wrestled  at  all  seasons,  with  very  ill-paid  labor  — 

Per  in  them  days  of  simple  livin',   it  didn't  allus  toiler, 

That  the  man  with  best  filled  quiver,  allus  had  the  silver  dollar. 

Farm   projuce  was  uncommon   low,  and  store  goods  awful  high, 

'Bout  fifty  cents  fer  calico,  er  common  factory, 

An'   eggs,   three  cents  a  dozen,   an'   even,   mavbe.   then. 

You'd  find  that  you'd  been  underlaid,  by  a  more  industrious  hen. 

There  was  no  tax  on   luxuries,   in  them  days,  of  any  sort, 

You  could  buy    yer   whisky    by    the    bar'l,    at    'bout    ten    cents   a 

quart ; 

There  was  no  chance  of  sellin'  yer  corn,  wheat,  rye  or  beans, 
'Less  you  loaded    'em    on    flat-boats,  an'    tuck   'em  down  to  New 

Orleans. 

Bin  thinkin'   'bout  a  bran'   new  house,   me  and  Mirandy  had, 
The  clapboard  roof  was  leakin'  some,  an'  the  chimbly  kinder  bad. 
The  daubin'   had  a  fallen  out  with  the  chinkin'  an'  got  loose, 
So  we  thought  the  new  one  was  in  sight  and  repairin'  want  much 
use  ; 

But  when  the   'lection   news  came   in,    I    kinder  changed   my  plan, 
I'll  patch   it  up  an'  then  turn  in,  an'  do  the  best  I   can  ; 
I   told   my  joy  an'  sorrow  partner  just  what  we'd  hev  to  do  — 
An'  Mirandy  sed,  an'  sed  it  loud.   "  Boo-hoo,  boo-hoo,  boo-hoo  !  " 

I'll  chink  and  daub  it  all  around,  to  keep  free  trade  wind  out, 
An'  corn   shucks    in    the   floor   cracks    will    be  protection,   I've    no 

doubt ; 

For  me,  the  future  haint  got  no  bright  anticipations, 
'Less  the  People's  party  "gets  there,"  an1   issues  gov'ment  rations. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  101 

Old   Podunk   says   it  come  about,   by   livin'   up  too   high  ; 
Naber  Stebbins  says  he  thinks  it  come  from   reciprocity  ; 
I   swan,  I  don't  know  what  to  think,  but  feel   kind   o'   suspicious, 
It  come  about  by  people  bein'   "  onnaterally  wicious." 


EASTER    MORNING. 

We  hail  thee,  joyous  Easter  Day, 
While  drowsy   Earth,   in  happiness, 

Opes  timid  eyes  from  winter's  sleep, 

And  from   low  plain  and  rocky  steep 
Make  haste  to  don  her  vernal  dress, 

While  robins  sing  a  roundelay. 

Oh,   Easter  Day,   upon  the  breath 
Of  early  spring  comes  this  grand  thought 

That  He  who  slept  in  rocky  tomb, 

'Mid   hours  of  deep  encircling  gloom, 
Has  mankind's  resurrection  wrought, 

By  breaking  prison  bars  of  death. 


102  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


CHRISTMAS. 

You  can  tell  of  coming  Christmas, 

By    the  jingling  of  the  bells, 
By  the   many  happy  faces, 
Which  are  blooming  in  all  places, 

Where  the  busy  merchant  sells. 
By  the  Christmas  trees  on  sidewalk, 

By  the  turkeys,  big  and  fat ; 
By  well-behaving  girls  and  boys, 
Expectant  of  new  Christmas  joys. 

Remembering   "  where  they're  at  !  " 

By  the  many  merry  greetings, 

By  the  softened  hearts  of  all  ; 
By  the  patient  time  abiding, 
And   the  very  careful   hiding 

Of  presents,  great  and  small. 
And  so  our  thoughts  are  turning 

To  the  sweetest  of  all  days, 
When  Love  goes  out  a  smiling, 
Her  lap  with  presents  piling, 

Singing  songs  of  joy  and  praise  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  103 


THE    POET'S    PLEA. 

Singer,   where  do  you  find   your  joyous  songs?" 

I   find   them   always  ready   made  for  me  ; 
There's  scarce  an   object   in   this  world   of  ours, 

But  can   be  turned  to   sweetest  poesy. 
The  great  wheel   at  the  busy  factory   hums 

A   melody  to   my  untutored   ears, 
Much   sweeter  than   the  grandest,   swelling  song 

E'er  set  to  music  by  the  rolling  spheres. 

The  joyous   notes  of   happy,   whistling   men, 

Who,   freed  from    labor's  carking,   weary  grind, 
Whistling,   homeward   trudge,   loved   ones  to  greet, 

Is   best  and  grandest   music   to   my   mind. 
My  fancy  pictures,  where,   in  humble  homes, 

The  fires  of   love  upon   the  altars   burn, 
The  wife's  bright  smile,  the  prattling  children's  kiss, 

To   welcome  the  tired  father's  glad   return. 

The  noxious  thistle,  with   its  winged  seeds, 
Is  full   to   overflowing  with   reflection's  food 

To  thoughtful   men.     Teaching  us  tnat  we   may   sow, 
Unwittingly,   the  seeds  of  bad   and  good. 


104  THE    KIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


How  sweet  'twill   be.   if.  at  the  end  of  days. 
When   life's  sun  dips  beneath  the  summer  sea. 

To  think,  God  willing,  that  our  good  seed  sown. 
May  find   rich   soil   in    nations  yet  to   be  ! 

The  organ  grinder,   on   our  public   street. 

Or,  as  he  serves  me  at  my  very  door. 
Reminds  me  oft  that,  better  far  his  work. 

Than   grinding  e'er  the  faces  of  the  poor  ! 
Pathetic,  too,   it  seems  withal,  to  me  ; 

Trudging  about  with   "  weary  step  and  slow 
He  sadly  points  to  me  that  time  in   life 

When  all  the  sounds  of  grinding  will   be  low. 

The  bird,   which  cleaves  the  air  on  tireless  wing. 

Is  a  sweet  poem,   ever  dear  to   me  ; 
For,  without  chart  or  compass,   lo  !  its  flight 

Is  guided  over  unknown   lands  and   sea. 
Then,   will   not  He.   who  gave   me,   unasked,   life. 

And  placed   my  feet  upon  the  thorny  road. 
Well   marked  by  stones,  all  stained  by  bleeding  feet. 

Bring   me  at   last,   to   His  own   blest  abode? 

The  chrysalis,  with   hidden  germ  enclosed, 

Has   naught  pleasing  to  unobservant  eyes  ; 
And   yet,   with   patient  waiting,   warmth   and   care. 

Comes  forth  the  gauzy,   bright-winged  butterflies. 
Will   not  He,  who  holds  worlds  in  boundless  space. 

Whose  care  extends  to  groveling  things  of  earth, 
Give  us  such  form  as  seemeth  good  to  Him. 

When   haply,  we  receive  our  second   birth  ? 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  105 


And  ask  you,  then,  where  do  I  find  my  songs  ? 

They   come  to   me   in   country  or  in  town  ; 
The  wind,  the  sun,  the  rivers  whisper  me, 

And   I  ?     I   only  gladly  write  them   down. 
'Tis   easy  when   you   know  just  what  to  say  : 

The  field   is   large  and   pleasant  is  the  work  - 
If  you  have  praise,  bestow  it  on  the  Muse, 

For  I  am  just  her  confidential  clerk  ! 


SPRING, 

She   is  coming  up  the  valley, 
She  is  climbing  o'er  the  hills, 

Strewing  flowers  to  the  music 
And  the  laughter  of  the  rills. 

With  Violets  and  Spring  Beauties 
Her  dainty  hands  she  fills. 

She   is  coming  up   the  valley, 
Bringing  with  her  lengthened  days, 

Keeping  time  to   merry  song  birds 
And   inspiring  matin  lays, 

Mingling  spring  time's  welcome   music 
With  children's  out  door  plays. 


106  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


COIN'    TO    FARMIN'. 

Coin'   to  farm,   me  and  Miranda  is ; 

That's  what  President  Stickney  says  ; 
Crappin'   it,"   now  is  jest  the  biz, 

So  President  Stickney  says. 
Sez  he,   "  The  cities  haint  got  room  ; 
Ef  ye  want  to  escape   the   impendin'   doom, 
Git  out      or  starve   in   one   small   room  !" 

So  President  Stickney  says. 

Now,  out  door  life  is  jest  the  chalk, 

That's  what  President  Stickney  says  ; 
So  'bout  five  millions  hev  got  to  walk, 

So   President  Stickney  says, 
Out  on  the  land  and  raise  big  "  craps," 
To  feed  the  ling'ring  suburban  chaps, 
And   we'll   all   be   happier      perhaps  ; 
So  President  Stickney  says. 

What  people  want   is  more  to  eat  !  " 
That's  what   President  Stickney  says, 

For  big  crops,   Iowa's  hard  to  beat  !  " 
So  President  Stickney  says. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


'  So  we're  goin'  to  do  our  level  best, 
To  feed   the   hungry  an'   oppressed  — 
Fillin'   vacuums  of  those  distressed  !  " 
That's  what  Mirandy  says. 

•  All  wealth   must  be  dug  from  the  ground  !  " 
That's  what   President  Stickney  says, 

So  folks   had   better   look   around, 
So   President  Stickney  says, 

For  a  place  to   dig.     And   then   begin 

To  dig  like  everlastin'  sin, 

To  git  cities  on  their  feet  agin  ! 
So  President  Stickney  says. 

'  Now,   farmin'   haint  so  all  fired   hard  !  " 
That's  what  President  Stickney  says  { 

Sez  he,   "  I'm   speakin'   by  the  card  !  " 
So   President  Stickney  says. 

Makes  difference  though,  jest  where  you  ar', 

Er  view   it,  from  anear  or  far  — 

From   hay  rack  or  a  palace  car  !  " 
That's  what  Mirandy  says. 

Yov're  wantin'   prosperous  times  agin  !  " 
That's  what   President  Stickney  says  ; 

Git  out  on  the  farms  and  fetch  her  in  !  " 
So   President  Stickney  says. 

We  haint  the  kind  as'll  stand  aroun' 

And  see  our  gov'ment  go  down, 

Jest  'cause  we  want  to   live   in   town  !  " 
That's  what   Mirandy  says. 


108  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

Five  millions  of  us  hev  got  to  go  ! 

That's  what  President  Stickney  says, 
To  ease  the  cities'  overflow  ; 

So   President  Stickney  says. 
"  Say  !    Got  a  good  farm  anywheres  ? 
We'll   leave  the  city  and   its  snares, 
And   "  go  to  crappin'   on  the  shares  !  " 

That's  what  Mirandy  says. 


TEARS    MINGLED. 

She  lost  her  ear-rings  in  the  well ; 

Alas,  and  a-lack-a  day  ! 
She  wept  and   mourned  about  it. 

Till  her  lover  came  that  way. 

Why  did  he  mingle  tears  with  hers, 
Nor  words  of  chiding  spoke? 

He  remembered  when  he  bought  them. 
How  he  put  his  watch   "in  soak  ! " 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  109 


COLUMBUS    DAY. 

We're  goin'  to  hist  the  good  old  flag,  me  and   my  wife,  Mirandy, 
Been   lookin'  for'ard  to  the  day,  and  kept  "Old  Glory  "  handy ; 
So,  when  Columbus  day  arrives,   no  matter  what  the  weather, 
We'll  fly  it  from  the  roof,  and  shout  for  Christopher  together. 

You  bet  it  makes  old  folks  feel  good,  and  sets  the  blood  a  bilin', 
To  think  about  Ameriky  and  her  flag  with  stars  a  smilin'  ; 
An'  all  the  way  we  hev  bin  led  by   Him  who  has  delivered 
Our  country  from   her  perils  oft,   sence  we  hev  bin  diskivered. 

Ef  it  hadn't  been  for  Christopher's  inquirin'  disposition, 

A  long  felt  want  an'   cravin'   heart  to  better  his  condition, 

What  would  we  all  hev  bin  to-day  ?    History  supposes 

We'd  be  eatin'  acorns  round  a  fire  with  brass  rings  in  our  noses  ! 

An'  a  wearin'  'coon  an'  'possum  skins,  a  livin  on  half  rations, 
An'  a  dancin'  them  ghost  dances  like  the  other  Indian  nations  ! 
We'd  ort  to  thank  Queen  Isabel,  fer  the  blessin's  which  surround 

us  — 
But  fer  her  money's  talkin',  Chris  never  could   hev  found  us. 

Great  many  people  in  this  land  haint  got  no  comprehension 
'Bout  the  bigness  of  the  enterprise  that  history  makes   mention  ; 
But  jest  set  down  and  argy,   and   turn   in   and   insist  it 
Was  sech   a  big  track   of  land   he   never  could   hev   missed   it  ! 


110  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

Some  folks  say  that  he  was  stuck  on  hisself,  as  navigator  - 
But  I   can't  find   sech  facts  confirmed    by  any  old  narrator  — 
Don't  b'lieve  he  cared  a  copper  cent  fer  hist'ry's  future  pages, 
But    ter   find  a    land    to    waltz    round    in      'thout    fallin'    off    the 
aiges  ! 

Well,  I  guess  yes,  he  found  it,  too,  this  Capting  of  the  Pinto  ; 
Though  San  Salvador  was  the  fust  place  Columbus  entered  into-- 
I've  allus  thought  it  was  a  shame,  sence  he  was  out  a  coastin', 
To  stop  at  sech  a  one-hoss  place  when  he  could  hev  sailed  to 
Bostin, 

An'  made  them  Bostin  folks  feel  good,  an'  gay  as  a  red  wagon, 
By  addin'  to  their  stock  in  trade  of  things  they  like  to  brag  on  ; 
May  be,  though,  it's  jest  as  well  fer  those  days  of  hist'ry  dim, 
As  they  might  now  all  be  claimin'  that  they  diskivered  him  ! 

Many  a  man  in  these  fast  times  would  hev  fretted  at  delay, 
While  Isabel  was  gettin'  ships  fer  him  to  sail  away  : 
Columbus  sweetly   smiled   at  fate  an1   didn't  get  disgusted 
An'   he  wa'n't    afeerd    of    collary.   ef  his    pictures   kin   be    trusted  ! 

My  eyes  git  kinder  misty  like,  thinkin'  of  Columbia's  lack  - 
In  them  tryin'  days,  she  didn't  hev  a  hull  flag  to  her  back 
But  now,  from  drizzly  Oregon  to  Maine's  high  rocky  shore, 
She's  dressed  in  stars  an',  woman-like,  is  hollerin'  fer  more  ! 


So  me  an'  Mirandy,  we  will  fly  the  starry  flag  together ; 
We'll  hist  it  from  our  cabin  roof  in  any  sort  of  weather ; 
We  don't  keer  fer  rain  that  wets,  er  a  cold  wave  that  benumbs 

us, 
We'll  jest  turn   in  an'  shout  our  best  fer  Christopher  Columbus. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  Ill 

Our  Iowa,  among  other  lands,   was  diskivered   somewhat  later, 
By    men    who've    made    her    what    she    is.       Kin    you    pint  out  a 

greater  ? 
Up  with   "  Old   Glory  "   then,  that  day  !     Put  the  flag-staff  in  the 

socket  — 
There's  no  persimmon  up  so  high  but  Iowa's  pole  kin   knock    it  ! 


THE    TARIFF. 

She  was  so  tall  and  he  so  short, 

She  said   'twere  only  fair, 
If  he  really  wished  to  kiss  her, 

He  must  stand  up  on  a  chair ; 
Then  climbing  down,   in  raptures, 

He  said  :     "  Look   a   here,   Mariar 
That's  a  splendid  illustration 

Of  sugar  getting  higher  !  " 


112 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


CHRISTMAS    CAKOL. 


Christmas  songs  are  in  the  air, 

Caroling  sweet ; 
Answering  voices  everywhere, 

The  strains  repeat. 
Love  and   Peace  walk   hand   in   hand, 

Whispering  low  ; 
Scattering  blessings  o'er  the  land, 

They  singing  go. 

Christmas  songs  are  in  the  air, 

Echoing  wide  ; 
Tossed   by  voices  here  and   there, 

At  Christmas  tide. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


113 


Hope  and  Joy,   with   arms   entwined, 

Wandering  forth, 
Touch    the  hearts  of  all   mankind, 

O'er  all  the  earth. 

Christmas  songs  are  in  the  air ; 

The  angels'   song, 
Sung  to  wond'ring  shepherds  there, 

Their  sheep  among, 
Is  echoing  'round  the  circling  earth, 

And   blessing  them, 
Who  sing  the   song  of  the  glad   birth, 

At   Bethlehem  ! 


Christmas  songs  are  in  the  air, 

Oh,  human  heart  ! 
With   sweetest   music   everywhere, 

Wilt  bear  a  part, 
To  swell  the  joyous  Christmas  song, 

With  voice  of  praise, 
And  thus  with   melody  prolong, 

This  day  of  days  ! 


114  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


WOULD    LIKE    ANOTHER    CHANCE. 

These  times  are   not  what    they   used    to   be.   I    hear    the  old   men 

say  — 

In  school   modes,  or  in  colleges,   in  business,  work  or  play  ; 
The  folks  who  got  their  schooling  in  the  days  so  long  gone  by, 
Look    with    envy  on  the    present  ways,  and    draw  a  weary    sigh. 
The  trouble  is,  as  I   suspect,  our  early  date  of  birth, 
Ere   Knowledge,  with  her  nimble  feet,  ran  swiftly  o'er  the  earth; 
And  Wisdom  cried  about  the  streets,  her  virtues  to  enhance 
So,  after  all.   1   don't  know  but  I'd  like  another  chance  ! 

I   miss  the  old  slab  seats     and  the  fireplace  long  and  wide; 
The  high  and  slanting  writing  desks,  along  the  rough   logs'  side  ; 
I   miss    the   squeaky    quill   pens,   with    home-made    ink   made  wet, 
As  in  falt'ring  hands  they  followed  the  copy  that  was  set  — 
"Command    you    may.    your    minds   from    play  'twas    pretty 

hard  to  do 

In  those  old  davs.    I   wonder  if   'tis  easier  in  the  new  ? 
I   hope  the  rule  of  love,  these  days,  all  cruelty  supplants. 
Making  the  old    log  school    house    boys  long  for  another  chance  ! 


I   miss  the  good  old-fashioned   games  we  used  to  play  at  noon 
That  hour  seemed  the  shortest-  study  coming  all  too  soon; 
Ah,    those    dear   old    games   of    "  Shinny,"    "  Town    Ball,"    and 
"  Crack  the  Whip  ;  " 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  115 

And  the  laugh  we'd  give  the  fellow,  when  he'd  sometimes  "  loose 

his  grip  !  " 

Your  modern  game  of  foot-ball   has   in   it,   many  tumbles, 
With   "  touchdowns,"    "  tackles,"    "  rushes,"   and    many  awkward 

"  fumbles  ;  " 

The  requisites  would    seem  to  be,    long  hair  and  padded  pants  — 
So    I    reckon    old    log    school    house    boys    don't    care   to    take    a 

chance  ! 

I   miss  the  old   love  letters,  with  the  picture  of  two  hearts, 

Pierced,  and  held  together,  with   most  wonderful  of  darts, 

With    the    oft-repeated    statement :       "  If    you    love    me    as    I    love 

you," 

No  knife,  yet  manufactured,   "  Can  cut  our  love  in  two  !  " 
Ah,    me  !     How   much   of  budding    love,   this  sentiment    enshrines ; 
How  many  hearts  have  fluttered,  with  the  reading  of  these  lines  ! 
Some  say   marriage   is  a   lottery  —  or  else  a  short  romance; 
But  all  the  boys  and  girls  I  know,  would   like  to  take  a  chance  ! 


Our  bodies  may  -grow  old  ;  but  hearts  should  ever  be  kept  young  — 

Hang  not  your  harps  on   willows,   neglected   and   unstrung ; 

But  sing  your  songs  of  gladness,   that  all    the  world   may   hear  — 

Who  can    tell   what    ears  are  open   to  catch    your    notes  of  cheer? 

Some  men,  and  very  good  ones,  too,  forget  they  once  were  boys, 

And  frown  upon  hilarity,  or  anything  like  noise  ; 

And  shut  their   hearts  'gainst  fiddles  —  and    the  chaste  and   merry 

dance  — 
But  1    "  Swan    to    man  !  "    1    don't    know    but    I'd    like    another 

chance  ! 


116  THE   RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    OLD    RAIN    BARREL. 

Oh,  the  dripping  of  the  water  from  the  eaves. 

What  music   it  has  always  been  to  me  ; 
'Neath  cabin  roof  where  rustling  forest  leaves 
Joined  the  dripping  in  the  sweetest  melody  ; 
With  the  steady,  ceaseless  dripping, 
As'  from  clapboards  it  came  tripping, 

To  the  music  of  the  leaves  ; 
Dropping,  dropping,   never  stopping, 

In   its  drip,  drip,  dripping, 
Into  the  old   rain   barrel,   'neath   the  eaves. 


I've  heard   many  fancy  operas  in   my  time  ; 

Hand  organs  and  pianos  till   I'm  tired  ; 
Brass  bands  and  sounding  cymbals  as  they  chime, 
With  wealth  of  lungs  and   muscles  well   inspired  : 
But  more  soothing  to  my  spirit, 
Is  the  water,   when   I   hear   it, 

As  a  song  my  memory  weaves, 
Mingling  with  the  rythmic  dropping, 

Dripping,  dripping,  dropping, 
Into  the  old  rain  barrel,   'neath  the  eaves  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  117 

Ah,   'mid  the  scenes  of  plenty  how  the  heart 

Clings,  vine-like,  to  the  happy  days  of  yore, 
While  floods  of  memories  cause  the  tears  to  start, 
At  the  thought  that  such   sounds   may  come   no   more, 
As  the  rippling,   aqueous   lapping, 
And   the  gentle,   ceaseless  tapping, 

The  weary   brain  relieves  ; 
As  it  falls  with  rippling  measure, 

Dripping,   dripping,   dropping, 
Into  the  old   rain   barrel,   'neath   the  eaves. 


The  heart  cry  of  the  world   is,   "  I'm  a-weary  !  " 

Looking  forward  to  the  sunset  of  our  days, 
How  our  souls  murmur  softly,   "  Miserere  !  " 
As  we   plod   slowly  on   our  winding  ways  ; 
But  our  memories  never  sleeping, 
E'er  reminds  us  of  the  weeping, 

Of  the  eaves  trough  as   it  grieves, 
Weeping  the  sombre  night  away, 
With   its  drip,  drip,  dropping, 
Into  the  old  rain  barrel,   'neath  the  eaves  ! 


Weary,  sleepless,  turn   I  to  the  book  of  yore, 

While  Hope  turns  with   loving  hands  the  leaves, 
And  she  gives  me  the  bright  promise  that  once  more, 
I   may  sleep  to  the  sound  of  dropping  eaves, 
Kissing  down  my  eyelids  sweetly, 
Shutting  out  the  world  completely  — 

Nor  mockingly  deceives 
Weary  ones  who  love  the  dripping, 

Dripping,  dripping,  dropping, 
Of  the  rainfall   in  the  barrel,   'neath  the  eaves  ! 


118  THE    HIVEH    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


PROSPERITY. 

She  is  standing  on  the  mountain  top, 
With  eyes  turned  to  the  West- 

With  thoughtful   look  and  attitude  she  stands ; 
Her  footsteps  west  are  tending, 
Though   her  way  seems    never  ending, 
In  its  slowness-   but  she's  mending 
And  her  coming  will  set  humming 

All  the  idle  wheels  in   Iowa's  broad  land  ! 

Yes,  she's  coming  through  the  valley, 
With  timid  step  and  slow  - 

How  joyously  we'll  greet  her  when  she  comes  ! 
With  all  sorts  of  floral   missies, 
And   a  thousand  factory   whistles 
While  the  Wolf  with  rising  bristles. 
From  workman's  door  retreats  before 

Prosperity's  procession  with  her  drums  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  119 


THE    TEMPLE    BEAUTIFUL. 

We  are  building,  we  are  building, 

My  little  wife  and   1, 
A  temple  called   "  The  Beautiful," 

Nor  lands  do  we  possess  ; 
The  foundation   is  the  Solid   Rock, 

Its  turrets  reach  the  sky, 
The  pillars  which  support  them 

Are   Love  and   Faithfulness. 

Its  walls  will   be  adorned  with 

Many   goodly   stones, 
Brought  from   the   mines  of  Cheerfulness, 

And  curiously  wrought, 
By   years  of  weary  toil,   mayhap, 

And   many  tears  and  groans, 
With  which   life's  sad  experience 

Is  often   dearly   bought. 

Our  rooms  will   all   be   beautiful, 
With   everything  so  grand  ; 

Here  Faith  will  fold  her  tired  wings, 
And   settle  down   to   rest, 


THE    HIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


Ami   Hope,   upon  a  pretty  little 

Pedestal   will   stand. 
While  Charity  will   have  a  place 

Where  pleaseth   her  the  best. 

The  process  has  been  very  slow. 

As.   one  by  one,  the  stones 
Have  found   the  right  position 

In   the   slowly   rising  wall  : 
And   ah  !   the  sad   mistakes  we've   made. 

Which   memory   bemoans. 
And   replacing  the  defective  ones. 

In   sadness  we  recall. 

Oft   times,   when   storm   clouds  lower. 

We'll   climb   the  turrets   high. 
Hand  clasped  in   hand  with   Faith  and   Hope. 

To  view  the  farther  shore 
Of  the   land  of   Hope  and   Promise. 

Which   sometimes  seems  so  nigh. 
As   it   lies   in   quiet  grandeur. 

Our  home  for  evermore. 

Some  day.   not   now.   in   other  lands. 

We'll   read   with   moistened   eyes, 
The  meaning  of  our  crosses  here. 

And   deep,   unuttered   sighs ; 
And   kiss  the  hand  we  could  not  see. 

Because  our  eyes  were  dull. 
For  polishing  these  tear-washed   stones. 

For  "  Temple   Beautiful." 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


We  are  building,  we  are  building, 

My   little  wife  and  I, 
A   temple  called   "  The   Beautiful," 

Nor  lands  have  we  possessed, 
And  oh  !  the  joy  'twill  give  us, 

If,   in  the  bye  and  bye, 
The  temple  is  accepted  by 

The   King  of  Righteousness. 


WHICH? 

The  New  Woman  and  the  Old   Man 

Discussed,  the  other  day, 
Deep  and   portentous  questions  ; 

And  each  one  had  a  say. 
But  the  discussion  waxed  the  hottest. 

When  they  settled  down  to  this 
Momentous  question,   whether 

"  Bloomers  are  ?  "   or  "  bloomers  is  ?  " 


122  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


A    THANKSGIVING    TOAST. 

November,  with  Thanksgiving,   passes  out ; 

December,   with   its  Christmas,   cometh   in  ; 
We  say  farewell  to  first,  with  feast  and  shout, 

Then   prepare  for  the  happy  Christmas  din. 
And  thus  it   is,  the  dear  old  earth  goes  round, 

Bringing  gladness  to  so  many  girls  and  boys  ; 
But  not  to  them  alone,  for  I'll   be  bound, 

The  old  folks  will  be  sharers  in  their  joys. 

In   November,  walk   we  'mid  the  falling  leaves, 

'Neath  the  sun's  close-veiled  and  smoky  glow  ; 
In   December,  where  old   Winter's  tempest  grieves, 

Sowing  lavishly,  the  treasures  of  his  snow. 
And  thus  the  fleeting  seasons,  one  by  one, 

Glide  so  quietly  that  thev  hardly   leave  a  trace  ; 
For  the  summer  season   is  no  sooner  done 

Than  the  sun   kisses  earth's  averted  face. 

In   November,   heap  we  up,   in  golden  piles, 
God's  best  gift  to  our  Iowa  -golden   corn: 

December,   greet   we   her  with   tears  and   smiles, 
For,   in   her  death,  the  glad   new  year  is  born. 

Thus  the  days,   months  and  years,   in  cycles  come, 
And  their  beauties  to  the  eyes  of  all   unveil, 

Leaning  on  the  promise,  of  which  this  is  the  sum 

*'  Seed   time  and   harvest  shall    not  fail." 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  123 


In   November,   lift  we  grateful   eyes  above, 

To   Him,  for  the  fruitage  of  the  year ; 
In   December,   give  we  feasts  and  gifts  of  love, 

Filling  earth  full   of  joyous,   happy   cheer. 
And  thus,   in   the  changing  future  years, 

May  each  heart,  with   happiness,   be  crowned, 
Looking  up,  oft  through   many  smiles  and  tears, 

To  the  great  Love,  which   makes  the.  world  go  round. 


THE    ROUNDUP. 

What  ?    Old  John  Goldbug  dead  ?    How  sad  ! 

And  didn't  leave  a  cent? 
Why,   he  was  rich  as  Croesus  was— 

I   wonder  where   it  went !  " 
And  then  the  sorrowing  heir  replied  : 
"  You  see  he  lost  his  health 
In  getting  rich.    To  get  that  back, 

He  then   lost  all   his  wealth  !  " 


124 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    HOMESICK    HOOSIER. 

I've  been  thinkin',  lately,  thinkin'  of  my  old  home  in  Indianny, 
An'  the  cabin  'mid  the  beech  wood,  'bout  forty  vears  gone 
past ; 

An'  I've  tried  to  pictur'  in  my  mind  the  many,  many  changes. 
Though  1  like  to  think  her  over  jest  as  I  saw  her  last. 


I'd  like  so  much  again  to  hear  the  old  cock  pheasant  "  drummin'  ' 
In  the  thicket,  on  the  old  log,  he  used  from  day  to  day  ; 

That  was  his  idee  of  courtin'  -  -  but  don't  let  him  hear  you  comin' 
Er  he'll  slip  down  in  the  hazel  bresh  and  hide  hisself  away. 


THE    HIVEH    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


125 


En  I  want  to  go  onct  more  to  a  good  old-fashioned  sugarin' 
En  watch  its  granulations  as  the  "  stirrin'  paddle  "  whirls  — 

En  when  you  talk  of  sweetness,  I  hev  lost  my  reckolecshun 
As  to  jest  how  I  decided  : 'twixt  the  sugar  an'  the  girls! 

En   ef   it  wasn't  wicked,    I'd   like  to.   jest  onct   more, 
Step    off    "  Money    Musk,"    or    "  Chase    the    Squirrel,"    upon    a 
puncheon   floor ; 


I   never  keerd  fer  waltzin'   to  the  fiddle's  witchin'  sound  — 
You    kin    hug  a  gal    much    better    when    she    haint  a   "  bobbin 
'round  !  " 


126 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


An'   I   want  to  jest  set  down   to  a  good,   old-fashioned   dinner ; 

Corn  pone  and  biled  pertaters,  "  chicken  fixins  "  on  the  right. 
Corn  beef  and  cabbage,  jowl  an'  greens,  with  artichokes  an' 
onions  ; 

Roast  pig  with  apple  sass,  or  jell     an'  everything  in  sight. 


Ef  everything's  before  ye,  ye  can   make  some  calkerlation. 
An'   kinder  map  out  in    your  mind    jest   what  yer  want  to  do  ; 

But  when  there's  only  dishes,  ye  kaint  make  prognostication 
Regardin'  what  you're  goin'  to  hev     ontil  ye  most  get  through! 


I   never  could  get  onto  this  new-fangled  way  of  feedin', 
Fetchin'  a  little,  timid   like,  as  ef  they  thought  'twas  pore  ; 

En  when  ye'd  settled  down  on  somethin'  suited  to  your  eatin', 
Whisk  off  the  dishes,   knives   an'    forks,    an'  fetch    along  some 
more  ; 

En  settin'  at  the  table,   mebbe,  'bout  three  hours  or  over, 
En  changin'  dishes  'leven  times,  an'  poppin'  champaign  corks  — 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


127 


Ef   I   was   mowin'   hay  away  as  bizzy  as  tarnation, 
Ye   bet   1   wouldn't  want  to   stop  an   be  a  changin'   forks  ! 

1  kin  count  my  herds  of  cattle  by  the  thousand,  on  the  hillside, 
Perarie  land  by  sections,  household  treasures  money  couldn't 
buy  — 

But  ef  I  had  the  calm  content  of  that  cabin  in  the  beech  wood 
I  wouldn't  swap  it  off  —  not  for  mansions  in  the  sky! 


128  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    UNDER    CAT. 

The  poets  have  sung  in   lofty  strains, 

Likewise  all  the  sages  doth  write, 
In  high-toned  verses,  with  tears  bedewed, 

'Bout  the  under  dog  in  the  fight. 
They'll  tell  you.   in  deep  concern,  the  wrong 

Of  strong  over  weak,  and  that, 
But  never  a  whimper  you'll  get  from  them, 

When  you  talk  of  the  uppermost  cat. 

To  those  who  watch  these  felines  "  scrap," 

In  their  noisy,  boisterous  ways, 
Observe  that  victory's  not  to  the  strong, 

But  to  wise  old  Tom  who  lays 
Upon  his  back,  with  claws  unsheathed. 

His  eyes  with  green  fire  alight  — 
Shed   tears  for  the   uppermost  cat,   but   bet 

On   the   under  cat   in   the  fight. 

The  air  will  be  full  of  long  drawn  sighs, 

With  vision  of  claws  and  fur. 
With  spittings  and  cussings,  world   'thout  end, 

But  with  them   nary  a  purr. 
You   may  talk  of  your  "  knock-out  "   slugging  bees, 

Your  bicycle  races  and  walks, 
The  rowing  of  boats,  or  shooting  of  guns, 

For  the  under  cat,   "  my  money  talks." 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS.  129 

There's  joy  in  the  battle's  roar,  they  say, 

But   I'd  rather  take  their  word, 
For  I   'spose  it  makes  some  difference 

Where  you  stand,  when   it  is  heard  ; 
But  just  for  pure  enjoyment,   like, 

Thout  risk  of  life  or  limb, 
Is  to  watch  two  felines  wage  a  war, 

And  the  under  cat  —  bet  on  him  ! 

It's  lots  of  fun,  they  tell   me,  too, 

When   track   and   weather's  fine, 
To  watch  the  face  of  the  knowing  man, 

Who   has  bet  on   the  wrong  equine, 
How  he  does  cuss  his  own  bad  luck, 

While  the  winner  throws  his  hat 
High   in  the  air,  with   lusty  shout  — 

You  see,   he's  the  under  cat. 

This  life  is  mainly  a  battle  for  bread, 

For  raiment,  shelter  and  rest ; 
And   happy   is  he  who  can   laugh   at  fate, 

When   he  comes  out  second  best, 
The   earth  he   knows    turns  o'er  and   o'er, 

In   its  never-wearying  flight, 
And  he  smiles  to  think  that  half  the  time 

He's  the  under  cat  in  the  fight. 


130  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


PLAIN    JANE    AND    ME. 

1  allus  keered  fer  fancy  names,  er  sech  as  sounded  well, 

A  slippin'  smoothly  from  the  tongue  —  Cath'rine  er  Isabel, 

Isadora,  Wilhelmine,   Hellena,  Josephine, 

Er  Hanner,  er  Susanner,   'Lizabeth,  er  Imogene, 

Till   I  saw  an  awe-inspirin'  girl,  with   her  head  well   up  in  air, 

An'  a  kinder  look  which  seemed  to  say  :    "  Jest  tech  me,  if  you 

dare  !  " 

My  theories  all  took  to  flight     my  heart  thumped   lustily, 
An'  acknowledged  that  plain  Jane  was  good  enough  fer  me  ! 

Of  course  she  was  superior     anybody  could  see  that, 

By  the  upward  tipping  of  her  nose  to  match  her  jaunty  hat ; 

An'  the  way    she   put    her   foot  down,  as  she   walked    along  the 

way, 

Servin'  notice  on  the  men  folks  that  'twas  goin'  down  to  stay. 
How  1  trimbled  when  I  took  her  hand,  an'  with  lover's  down 

cast  eyes, 

Asked  the  question  she  expected  —  with  a  look  of  feigned  surprise  — 
Chewed  her  handkercher  a  minit  an'  what  she  said,  you  see. 
Will  never  be  reported  by  either  Jane  or  me  ! 

Apple  blossoms  are  as  pretty  as  the  orange  fer  a  bride, 
An'  everybody  thought  so,  as  she  towered  by  my  side, 
So  self  possessed  an'  conscious,  so  smilin'  an'   so  sweet- 
An'   I  all  of  a  trimble,  an'  could  scarcely  keep  my  feet ; 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  131 

An'   the  crowd   there  all   a  gigglin'   within  the  festive   hall  — 
But  I   saw  'em   kinder  misty-like,   if  any  way  at  all  ; 
"  Will   you    have    this   'ere   woman  ?  "    the    preacher    sez,   sez   he ; 
An'    1    murmured  that   "  plain   Jane   was  good   enough   fer  me  !  " 

Life's  jest  a  streak   of  sunshine,   bordered   all  along  the  way  ; 
While  flowers   nod   approval,   where'er  my  feet   may  stray, 
A   lightin'   up  the  narrow  path  with  colors  warm   an'   bright  — 
But  1  know  now  how  the  moon  feels,  shinin'  with  reflected  light  ! 
I   haint  a  braggin'  of  it,  though   I'm  glad  to  make  a  note 
Of  the  fact  that   1   am   privileged   to  go  an'   cast  a  vote  ; 
But  the  honor  seems  an  empty  one,  for  1  reckon  that  to  be 
The  husband  of  plain  Jane  is  good  enough  fer  me  ! 

She    belongs  to  all   the  Wimmen's    Clubs,    an'  —  my!   she    knows 

a  heap  ! 

She  can't  tell   all   she  knows  by  day,   so  talks   it  in   her  sleep  ; 
In   her  hungerin's  fer  knowledge  an'   improvin'   of  herself, 
She  spends  hours  readin'  papers  she  lays  on  the  pantry  shelf. 
Proudest   moments   in   my.  life,   sence   the   hour  I   first  knew   her, 
Is  when    she  sets  an'  talks  to  me  'sif  I   was  ekal  to  her  ! 
Sech   picters   in   home   life  these  days  are   beautiful   to  see  — 
So   I   reckon   that  plain   Jane   is  good   enough  fer  me  ! 

She  can   make  a   mustard   plaster,   bringin'   water  to   the  eye  ; 
Sendin'  a  feller's  memory  to  the  middle  of  July  — 
Er  make  a  flax   seed   poultice  as  soft  as  summer's  rain, 
An'   as  soothin'   as  the  echo  of  music's  sweetest  strain. 
I   haint  no  cause  to  grumble,  even  if  she  did  diskiver 
That  stiddy  work  is  jest  the  thing  fer  a  feller's  lazy  liver ; 
An'   ef  she  does  the  docterin',   that's  the  way   its  got  to   be, 
Fer   1   reckon   that  plain  Jane  knows  what   is  best  fer  me  ! 


132  THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


OCTOBER. 

She   is  coming  !    She   is  coming  ! 

Crowned   with   leaves  of  crimson   dye. 
With   grape  stains  on   her  beauteous  lips, 

And    laughter   in   her   eye  : 
Dodging  the  fast  falling  nuts, 

Jack   Frost   is  scattering  free, 
While  fire,   unconsuming,  rests 

On   every   bush   and   tree  ; 
With   smoke-veiled   face   now   smiling  o'er   us, 

Our  dear  October  stands   before  us  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  133 


THE    WORLD'S    FAIR    POEM. 

I'm  very   much  obleeged  to  you  for  your  flatterin'   invite, 
To  write  a  poem  for  the  Fair  and  be  there  to  recite  ; 
I'm  purty  bizzy  these  ere  days,   me  and   my  hired   man, 
But  I'll  think   it  over  keerful  like,  and  do  the  best  I   can. 

It's  quite  unlucky  that  I   sent   Pegassus  out   to  graze  ; 
For  portry   in   the   "  wild  and   woolly  "   hardly   ever  pays  ; 
I   'spose  that  1   can  coax  him   back   if  he  haint  gone  too  far  — 
Ef  not,    I   reckon    I   can   hitch   my  wagon   to  a  star  ! 

When   inspiration's  skeery   like,   the   writin'   of  a   piece, 
Is  not,   as  ginerally   supposed,   to   be   "  as   slick   as  grease  ;  " 
It's  purty   nigh   as  tough   a  job,   as   it  would   seem   to   me, 
As  twistin'   a  shriekin'   rabbit  outen   a  holler  tree  ! 

I've  had   that  World's  Fair  on  my  mind   purty  nigh  day  and   night, 
A  fearin',  that,   like  Moses,   I   might  die  without  the  sight ; 
But  now   I   read   my  title   clear  —  am   one  of  the  elect, 
Jest  so  to  speak  —  and   I'll   be  there,  at  least  1   so  expect. 

Mirandy  says   I'll   hev  to  git  a   new  outfit  of  clothes  ; 

Trousers,  vest,  Prince  Albert  coat  — and  what  else,  goodness  knows  L 


134  THE    HIVEH    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

And  she's  also  of  the  'pinion  that  I   will   look  the  best, 

Wearin'   a  sash  to  hide   the  gap  'twixt  onfriendly  pants  and  vest  ! 

I've   been   a   worry! n'.   in   my   mind,    'bout  sellin'    off    some  stock  ; 
I   'spose  I   must,  at  some  price,  or  else  I'll  hev  to  walk  — 
And  countin'  ties  in  these  'ere  days  is  everlastin'  slow, 
So   I    'spose   the   tailless  Jersey  cow  and   calf  will   hev  to  go  ! 

If  the  People's  Party  was  in  power,   'twould   be  an  easy  trick 

To  turn  our  projuce  into  cash   most  everlastin'  quick  ; 

Per   the   gov'ment    would    be    ready,    jest   as   soon    as    we    could 

thrash, 
To  git  out  papers  on  our  grain  so's  we  could  git  the  cash. 

Er,   if  we  had   a   lot  of  cows,   or  a  onruly   bull, 
Er  some  scabby  sheep,  er  goats,  er  a  hoss  that  wouldn't  pull. 
We  could   send    'em   to  the    gov'ment,   by  one  of  our    smart   lads. 
Who'd  tie   'em   to  the  treas'rv   fence  and   go   in   fer  the  scads  ! 

Jest  what  they'd   want  of  onery  bulls   is   more'n   I   can   tell  ; 

But   they    hev    'em    down  on    Wall    Street,  why    not    Washington 

as  well  ? 

Mebbe  next  Congress  may  be  slow,  as  last  one  was,   1   learn, 
They'll   turn   'em    in  there      jest  as  an   inducement  to  adjourn. 

I'm  glad  you're  goin'  to  hev  some  things  that  can't  be  found  at 

home  ; 
Some  "  Sacred  Cats  "  from   Egypt,  and  some  "  Catacombs  "  from 

Rome, 

And  ef  the  show  is  carried  out  accordin'  to  programs. 
You'll   hev  there   Ancient   Rameses      and   other   Batterin'    Rams! 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS.  135 

Rameses  was  a  'Gyptian   King  and  one  of  his  smart  tricks 
Was    to    slip    down    to    the    brickyards    and    count    the    Hebrews' 

bricks  ; 

He  stepped   on   'em   with   both   his  feet  —  but  Powderly  was  there, 
And  as  he  wouldn't  arbitrate,   he'll   bring  him  to  the   Fair  ! 

I'll  try  and  git  there  in  good  time,   to  take  in  all  the  show, 
I've  kinder  mapped  out  in   my  mind  jest  where  1   wanter  go  — 
I  don't  know  which  will  be  most  fun      a  minglin'  with  the  races 
Er  a  watchin'   them    New   Yorkers  comin'    in   a   makin'   faces  ! 


THE    RELUCTANT    IDEA. 

Her  head  was  resting  on  one  hand, 

The  other  held   a  pen  ; 
She  dipped   it  deep,   in  violet  ink, 

Glanced   at  the  ceiling  then  ; 
And   sighing,   cried   aloud   to   space : 
Not  since  the  days  of  Cicero, 
Nor  since  the  world   was  framed,    I    know, 
Have  new  ideas  come  so  slow  !  " 

Forgetting,    in   her  deep  distress, 

Her  new  style   "  graduating  dress  !  " 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


THE    RACE    AT    CHEROKEE. 

Say,  what  you  fellers  laughin'  at  ?    I   reckon  you  have  guessed 

I'm  a  silver  miner  from   the  State  way  out  in  the  West, 

Where    the    Governor    wished   to  wade     in    gore    up    to   his  bridle 

reins. 
An'  to   fight    fer   silver   jest  as    long  as  the    blood    stayed    in   his 

veins. 
Mebbe  ef  you'd    been    where   I    hev,   an'    knowed   what    I've   been 

through, 

A   sleepin'   out  of   nights,   an'   a  feelin'    kinder  blue 
At  the  slim  chances  to  git  a  homestead,  don't  you  see 
I'm  jest  back  from  the  races  down  thar  in  Cherokee  ! 

It  beat  a  hen  a  peckin',   to  see  the  people,   when 

They  gathered   in   from   every   place,  from   every   nook   an'   glen. 

An'  girded  tightly  up  their  loins  to  run  a  race  fer  land. 

Fer  which,   up  here  in   Iowa,  you  wouldn't  turn  your  hand. 

There  was  women,   men  an'  Injuns,  a  waitin'   fer  the  day. 

Fer  the  signal   to  be  given,  fer  all  to  rush  away 

Across  the  line  to  mingle  in  a  strugglin'   human   sea. 

In  the  wild  race  fer  a  homestead,  down  thar  in  Cherokee  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND   OTHER    POEMS.  137 

There  was  Missourians  an'  Texans,  Kansas  men  in  large  amount  — 

I   represented   Iowa,   as   near  as   I    kin   count  — 

All   mounted  upon  wagons,  horses,   mustangs^  or  on   mules, 

Loaded  down   with  cookin'   implements  and    lots  of  shootin'  tools. 

All  a  swearin'  an'  a  growlin'   an'  a  scrougin'  all  about, 

A  waitin'  for  the  pistol  shots  —  the  signal   to  rush  out. 

Not  long  ago  I  read  how  Sherman   marched  down  to  the  sea  — 

That  was  a  picnic,  though,   compared  to  the  race  at  Cherokee. 

When  the  signal  gun  was  fired,  you'd  orter  see  the  sight, 
As  us  hundred  thousand   boomers  betook  ourselves  to  flight ; 
How  we  tumbled  o'er  each  other,   in  our  wild  and  mad  career, 
As  we    lashed    our   horses   till    they  ran  with    speed  of  frightened 

deer  ; 

One  woman,  who,   upon  her  back,  had  strapped  her  little  tot, 
Made  a  gallant  race,  and  fairly  won  a  valuable  lot ; 
She  sat  there  with  baby  as  happy  as  could  be  — 
She'd  got  jest  what  she'd   come  for.   in   the  race  at  Cherokee. 

'Leven  bicycle  fellers  took  the  road  agin'  the  field,  an'   won  it ; 
They   rode    "  Des  Moines    Pacemakers,"    or    they    never    could    a 

done   it. 

Them   chaps  could   beat  the  fastest  train,  I  spose,  as  well   as   not ; 
They  humped   themselves  that  time,   for  sure,   an'   each   one  got  a 

lot. 
The   "  sooners,"    the   sworn    deputies,    an;   the    gov'ment's    favored 

horde 

Got   in  a  few  hours  previous  an'   nearly  swept  the  board, 
By  goblin'   up  the  choicest  lots  an'   landed  property, 
So  the  stiddy  goers  all  got  left  in  the  race  at  Cherokee. 


138  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

Me  ?    Git  anything  ?    I  guess  not ;  I   rode  a  kickin'   mule, 
An'   he  stopped  to  kick  at  everything,  the  ornery  old  fool  ! 
Didn't  git  thar  till  noon  next  day --at  every  wayside  station 
1   met  some  people  comin'  back  a  cussin'  the  administration 
For  carryin'  the  cruel  joke  much  furder  than   it  orter, 
An'  washin'    disappointments   down    with  government  salt  worter ; 
Don't  know  how   it  struck  other  folks  — that's  the  way  it  'peared 

to  me, 
As  1   look  back  on  the  races  down  thar  in  Cherokee. 

Well,  yes,  that's  so,  jest  as  you  say.    Of  course  it  mought  have 

been. 

But  'fore  I  got  thar  all  the  mayors  was  'lected  an'   sworn   in. 
An'  houses    built  in  all    the  towns.     They    do   things   thar    much 

quicker  - 

Taint  the  fust  time  a  candidate's  been  knocked  out  by  a  kicker  ! 
Iowa's  good  enough  for  me.    I'll  camp  here,  sure's  yer  born  - 
Say,   know    where  I   could    strike  a  stiddy   job  of  shuckin'   corn  ? 
An',  would  you  mind  a  puttin'  up  a  plain,  square  meal  for  me  ? 
Haint   had  one  sence   1   lost  the  race  down   thar  in   Cherokee. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


139 


"  Edge   Water,"  overlooking   Highland    Park,    a   favorite   spot  of   the   Author,   and 
where   many   of   these   poems   were   written. 


FORTY    YEARS    IN    IOWA. 


Forty  years  in  Iowa  !    How  curious  it  seems  ; 
Like  the  passing  years  of  fancy,  or  the  mistiest  of  dreams  ! 
To  look  back  from  this  Mizpah,  at  the  swiftly  flying  years, 
Marked  with  more  of  joy   than  sorrow,  with   more  of  smiles  than 

tears  ! 

To  look  back  on  the  changes,  for  the  better,   it  may  be, 
To  the  straggling,  dirty  village,  to  the  city  which  we  see. 
Friends  tell  us  that    she's    smokier   than    ever  !      Fie,  for  shame  ! 
Clean  or  dirty,   she   will    ever    be  my  sweetheart,    just   the  same. 


140  THE   RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

Suppose  the  smoke-clouds  stand  above,  as  in  the  days  of  old, 
To   mark   the  tabernacle,   and   the  sacred  tent  enfold  ; 
It  means  Prosperity  some  day,  will  settle  down  to  stay, 
And  fill  the  place  with  factories  which  will  not  run  away  ! 
Would  that   it  were  thicker ;  and  a  thousand  factory  throats 
Were  belching  it  from   lofty  stacks,  to  their  whistles'   noisy  notes  ; 
We  know  the  soot  and  grime   'twould  bring    -  but    with   it  comes 

the  hope 
Of  swelling  purses,   making  it  the  easier  to  buy  soap  ! 

Forty  years  in   Iowa  !    And  the  changes  they  have  wrought, 
To  swell  her  growing  triumph  !    Ah,  who  ever  thought 
As  he  plodded    through  the  mire,   in  a  desultory  way, 
He  would  travel  dry  shod  over  bricks  made  from  this  very  clay  f 
Who  could  have  faintly  pictured  then,  the  glory  of  a  home 
'Neath  the  shadow  and    the  glitter  of  the  Capitol's  bright    dome  ; 
Or  swap  slow  stage  for  railroad,  bringing  commerce  from  afar ; 
Or  harness  up  chained   lightning  to  the  swiftly   moving  car  ! 

Forty  years  in  Iowa  !    And  the  friends  we've  gathered   here  ! 
How  these  golden  links  are  strengthened,   with  every  rolling  year  ! 
Tilts  and  quarrels  may  have  sometimes  embittered  every  cup  - 
But  the  "  Spirit  of  Des  Moines  "  says  :    "  Kiss  and  make  it  up." 
Cheer  up  and  sing   your   peans  to  the  State  we    hold   most  dear, 
Which  celebrates  her  fiftieth  anniversary  next  year. 
Get  on  your  knees  and  ask  the    Lord  to  let  you  see  that  day  - 
And  don't  forget  to  thank   Him  for  a  home  in   Iowa  ! 

Forty  years  in   Iowa  !    This  maid  when   "  sweet  sixteen," 
Sent  out  one  hundred  thousand  sons      the  bravest  ever  seen 
To  save  a  Nation  and  a  Flag  vile  hands  had  fastened  on, 
And  wrote  their  characters  in  blood  at  Shiloh,   Donelson, 
At  Wilson's  Creek,  at  Corinth,  from   "  Atlanta  to  the  Sea," 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  141 

And  home  by  way  of  Richmond  —  as  proud    as    proud    could  be  ! 
They  brought    "Old  Glory"    with    them —which    not  a  son  dis 
graced  — 
Faded,   and   torn,   and   tattered  —  but   not  a  star  displaced  ! 

Forty   years   in   Iowa  !     Where   Peace  and   Plenty   walk  ; 
While   Famine,   sore,  and   Hunger,  outside  her  borders  stalk. 
Ah,  who  can  speak  the  glories  of  this  Queen,  with  Plenty's  horn, 
As  she  sits  to  bless  the  nations,  from   her  throne  of  golden  corn  ! 
And  who   may  tell  the  future  of  the  many  years  in  store, 
When  her  name,   her  fame,  her  goodness,  are  sung  from   shore  to 

shore, 

As  a  land  of  sun-kissed   prairies,  where   Plenty  ever  reigns  — 
There's  no  hurry  about  Heaven,   while  Iowa  remains  ! 


SHE    HAD. 

Didst  e'er  contribute  for  the  press  ?  " 

Asked   the  editor  with   smile, 
Looking  in  her  bright  blue  eyes, 

Her  hand   in   his,   the  while. 
Oh,   yes,"   she  said,  with   interest  deep, 

And  face   with   blushes  bright ; 
I   often   do  — that  is  to   say, 

By  turning  down  the   light  !  " 


142  THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


HOOSIER    RECOLLECTIONS. 

I   reckon   I  am  jest  about  as  old-fashioned  as  can  be, 

An'   kinder  hanker  after  good,  old-fashioned  things  ; 
Old-fashioned  songs  and  stories  —  an',  so  far  as  I   can  see, 

The  good    old  way  of  courtin',  an'  the    style  of  weddin'    rings. 
I've  allus  had  an   idee,  that,   in  the  good  old  way 

Of  puttin'  on  a  weddin'  ring  in  such  a  solemn  style, 
Twould   last  longer  an'  cling  closter,  than  the  style  in  vogue  to 
day, 

When  promises  are  lightly  made  for  such  a  little  while. 


I  git  to  thinkin',  sometimes,  an'  questionin'   myself, 

An'  askin' :    "  Are  we  happy  as  in  days  gone  by, 
When  livin'  was  more  simple,  an'  the   mad  pursuit  of  pelf 

Did  not  absorb  our  bein's  ?  "    An'  my  answer  is  a  sigh. 
Is  there  a  Hoosier  living,  who  would  willin'ly  exchange 

The  ager  for  the  microbes,  the  bacteria  or  gout, 
That  you  swaller  with  your  vittles,  or  take  in  at  short  range, 

Through  your  breathin'  apparatus,  to  eat  your  vitals  out  ? 

Jest  think  of  it  a  minute  !    In  the  good,  old-fashioned  days, 
The  doctors  had  plain  names  for  diseases  of  all  sorts; 

They  mixed  calomel  an'  jalap  in  the  most  enticin'  ways, 
An'  tackled  ailments  boldly,  from  pneumonia  to  warts. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  143 

In   these    days  of  swift    progression,    our    physicians  do   not    grope 
In  the  dark  as  did  our  doctors  ;  for  if  they  have  a  doubt, 

They  light  up  our  interiors,  as  long  as  there  is  hope, 
To  see  jest  what  is  in  us  —  an'   try  to  knock   it  out  ! 


I  'spose  I've  laughed  a  thousand  times  'bout  the  old  style  of 
courtin' 

The  boys  an'  girls  accomplished  by  the  fireplace,  long  an'  wide, 
While  the  unsnuffed  taller  candle,  its  sputterin'  wick  disportin', 

Threw  shadders  dim,  upon  the  wall,  of  the  couple  side  by  side. 
With  taller  dips  fer  sparkin',  'lectricity  isn't  in  it, 

When  safety  and  convenience  are  the  things  you  talk  about ; 
If  they  ever  got  too  brilliant,  it  only  took  a  minnit 

To  rise  to  the  occasion  —  an'  gently  snuff  'em   out! 


I   think  the  style  of  kissin'   in  a  small  room   is  the  worst, 

Which   sounds  like  the  quick    drawin'  of  a  colt's  foot  from  the 

mud  ; 
Givin'  parents  the  impression  that  the  yeast  bottle  has  burst, 

As   it  breaks  upon   the  stillness  with   a   loud   resoundin'   thud. 
I   miss  the  old  well  sweep,  with   its  salutations  bowin', 

As  it  brought  the  drippin'    bucket   from  the  waters  cool    below, 
With   the   hollyhocks,  the   poppies,  an'   the  tall   sunflowers  growin' 

By  the  well    side    where    I've    slaked    my  thirst   so   many  years 
ago. 

My  heart  goes  out  in   hunger  for  the  great,  wide  spreading  beech 

wood, 

An'    poplars,   with    their    winged    seeds,   around    my  cabin   door ; 
An'   troopin'   back   to   mem'ry  comes  the  dear  old   spot  where  each 

stood, 
To  wave  its  giant  arms  above  my  happv  home  of  yore. 


144  THE    HIVEH    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS. 

Then    there    was    "  apple    cuttin's,"    an'    the    sports    which    came 

soon  after, 

An'   playin'   "  Sister  Phoebe,"   in  the  mellow  candle  light ; 
Er    "  Marchin'    down    to    Quebec,"    with  a    mouth    chock    full    of 

lafter ; 
As  it  comes  back  to  me  to-day  —  'twas  simply  "out  of  sight  !  " 

Mebbe  to  the  fiddle's  sound,  the  boys  an'  girls  would   mingle, 

In  the  chaste  and  merry  dances  so  well  known  in  days  of  yore, 
With  ruddy  cheeks  aglow,  while  their  very  feet  would  tingle 

As  they  spoke  their   rythmic    pleasure   upon  the  puncheon  floor. 
As  life's  shadders  fade  away  on  the  paths  pressed  by  our  feet, 

Dear  Friends,   may   it  be  your  great   happiness ~  an'   mine, 
To  sound  our  golden  harps  with  a  joyousness  complete, 

As  the   notes  we  blew  on   trumpet   made  of   punkin   vine  ! 


SEPTEMBER. 

Now  blooms  the  feath'ry  goldenrod. 

The  flower  of  Iowa's  choice  ; 
The  katydid  and  cricket,  too, 

Have  lifted  up  their  voice. 
The  works  of  Nature,  careless-like. 

Are  strewn   in  woods  and  field. 
Spread   out   in   a  September  sun. 

With   everv   book   unsealed. 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  14S 


CHRISTMAS    DOINGS. 

Old  Christmas  is  a  comin'  !    You   kin  feel   it  in  the  air, 

Per  our  wimin  folks  are  a  workin'  on  the  sly  an'  wond'rin'  where 

They  can  hide  their  precious  secrets,  where  no  pryin'  eye  can  see  — 

An'   there's  not  a  man   on  top  of  ground  that's  tickelder  than  me  ! 

It's  jest  a   little  techin',   though — an'   not  a   little  fun 

To   hev  a  pair  of  slippers,   er  ear   kivers,   when   they're  done, 

As  to  be  so  very  liberal  regardin'   length  and  size, 

As  to  cause  the  veriest  donkey  a  sweet  an'  glad  surprise. 

An'   the  children  !     Bless  the    children,   with    their    brains  all   in   a 

whirl 

Don't  forget   'em.     There   is   love   enough   tor  every   boy  an'   girl 
If  sorted  out  by   lovin'   hearts  an'   willin'   hands,   to  bless 
All   the  world,   on   this  glad   day   of  self-forgetfulness. 
Let   yer    mem'ry  take  a  short   cut ;    my  !    how  quickly    old    Time 

slips  ; 

Only  yest'day  you  kissed  yer  mother  with  yer  taffy-covered  lips, 
A  wond'rin'  who  Old  Santa  was,  who  knew  yer  wants  so  well, 
Feelin'  sure  that  papa  knew  him  —  if  he  would  only  tell. 

An'  I  used  to  wonder  how  it  was,  when  chimbleys  were  so  small, 
How  Santa  Claus  could  find  the  place  an'  leave  presents  fer  us 

all 
An'    jest    the    things    we    prayed    fer,    too      when     childish    hearts 

were  stirred. 


146  THE    HIVEH    BEND    AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

In  tones  so  loud  an'  earnest,  parents  must  have  overheard. 

I   hope  that  all  the    boys   an'    girls    will    be  found    by   good    Old 

Santa. 

Whether  they  dwell  in  mansions  large,  or  live  in  a  small  shanty  ; 
An'  may  I  express  a  hope  of  him  -I'm  sure  he  will  not  mind  it, 
That  there'll  be  no  chimbly  in  this  land  so  small  but  he  will 

find   it  ! 

A   memory  rises  here,  an'   in   happy,  boyish   mood, 

I   sit  at  grandpa's  table  in  an   Indianny  wood, 

In  a  double  hewed   log  cabin   in  the  middle   of  a  clearin' 

Which  grandma  allus  spoke  of  as  bein'  "  out  of  sight  an'  hearin'." 

A  Christmas   feast  !    A  pig  well    browned,  with  an    apple    in    his 

jaws. 

Which   he  didn't  seem   to  care  for,  or  take  interest  in,   because 
If  grandpa  did  the  carvin'.   he  would  slice  him   in  a  minit  — 
An'   1  allus  got  the  piece  that  had  the  kidneys  in   it. 

Then  there  was  a  big  fat  gobbler,  roasted  before  the  fire, 
Hitched   to  a  cabin    cross    beam    with  a  strong   cord    spliced    with 

wire, 

An'   it  hung  there  jest  a  whirlin',  as  if  'twould   never  stop 
An'   the   iron   pan   beneath   it,   caught  the  gravy,   drop   by  drop. 
The  table  was  jest  loaded      an'  there  was  no  bill  of  fare 
That  vou  had  to  read  all    over  'fore  you    knowed   jest  what  was 

there  : 

Grandpa  allus    ast  a   blessin'      he  generally  said: 
"  Oh,   Lord,  we  thank  Thee.  (  mumble,   mumble, )  Sally,  pass  the 

bread  !  " 

An'  grandma'd  say  :    "  Jest  reach  in  an'  take  out,  fer  pap  an'  me 
Aint  either  of  us  any  hands  to  wait  on  company." 
She  allus  was  pretendin'   like  her  cookin'  was  so  pore  ! 
An'   yet  she'd   keep  a   urgin'   us  to  take  a   little   more 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  147 


Said    the    turkey,   it   was    underdone,    an'    the    biscuits    was    burnt 

black. 

An'  all  the  hull   endurin'  day  there  was  something  out  of  whack  ; 
An'    she    hoped    that  we  could    somehow    make  a  dinner  of    seen 

stuff  - 
Grandpa  allus  raised  both  eyebrows  when  we  said  we'd  et  enuff  ! 

An'   there   we'd   sit  an'    laugh   an'   joke  all   Christmas  afternoon, 

Er  grandpa'd  git  his  fiddle  out  an'   play  a  lively  tune, 

So  full  of  joy  an'   sweetness  as  would  dispel  all  earthly  woes, 

An'    make  a  feller  wonder  what   had  got  into   his  toes  ! 

In  fiddlin',  grandpa  allus  took  the  middle  of  the  road  ; 

When   he  began  to  play  a  tune  then  everybody  knowed 

It    was  a  fight    clean   to  the  finish,   fer    he    sawed   it  through    an' 

through, 
Nor  skirmished  round  the  aiges  like  our  modern  fiddlers  do  ! 

Christmas  may  come  an'  Christmas  go,  but  love  is  jest  the  same, 
An'   will  outlive  all  things  on   earth,  from   riches  up  to  fame ; 
But  memory,  sweet,   will   linger  on  the  good   old  Christmas  times 
An'   contrast  them  —  not  unkindly  —  with  our  faster  ringin'  chimes, 
An'   drop  a  kindly  tear  for  those  whose  love  will   ne'er  decay, 
Who  are  with  us  in  the  spirit  on  this  merry  Christmas  day ; 
Whose   hearts    have    throbbed    with    love    for  all    without  a  restin' 

spell 
For  eighty-five  or  ninety  years  —  hope  ours  will  do  as  well  ! 


148  THE    RIVEK    BEND    AM)    OTHER    POEMS. 


RECONSIDERATION. 

I   wooed   the   Muse  with   sweetest  dalliance, 

And   asked   if  she  would   strike  the  tuneful   lyre. 
Which,   in   my  breast,   lay  voiceless     or,  perchance. 

Waiting  her  finger's  touch  of  poetic  fire  ; 
But  she,   in  scorn  refused,  with   haughty  brow. 

And  gave   me   no  encouragement  at  all. 
But  said  :    "  Why  should   I   walk  with  such  as  thou. 

Whose  sleeve  ne'er  rubbed   inside  a  college  wall  ?  " 

In   silent  grief,    I   turned   to   homely   Prose. 

Who  sat  apart  with   modest,   downcast  eyes  ; 
Wilt   walk     with   me  ?  "    I   faltered.     For  reply  she  rose, 

And   hand   in   hand,   we   wandered   'neath   the  skies. 
Where  rivulets  sang  of   Love  ;  and   where 

Willows  laved  their  thirsty  boughs  ;  where  bees 
With  drowsy  hum,  and  song  birds  charmed  the  air 

With   sweetest   music,   'mid   the   Linden   trees. 

We  stood  where  mountain  torrents  roared  and  rushed. 

Foaming  and   impatient,   as  they   sped   away : 
Or  watched  the  eastern  glow,  where  morn  first  blushed. 

Or  saw  the  angels  put  up  the  bars  of  day. 
We  walked  where  fancy  or  inclination  pressed, 

In   sweet  communion,   as  spake   mind  to   mind  : 
But  not  alone,  for  you   may  well   have  guessed 

The  jealous   Muse  came  tagging  on   behind  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  149 


THE    POET    OF    THE    FUTURE. 


Oh,   the   poet   of   the   future  !     Will    he   come   to   us  as   comes 
The   beauty   of   the   bugle's   voice   above   the   roar  of  drums  — 
The   beauty   of   the   bugle's   voice   above   the   roar  and   din 
Of   battle   drums   that    pulse   the   time   the   victor   marches   in  'i 

—JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


"  Oh,   the   poet  of  the  future  !  "     Can   anybody  guess 
Whether  he'll   sound  his  bugle,  or  she'll   wear  them  on  her  dress  ; 
An'   will   they   kinder  get  their  themes  from    natur',   second    hand. 
An'   dish   'em   up   in   language  plain  folks  can't  understand  ? 

There's  a  sight  of  this   'ere  portry   stuff,   every  year,   that  goes  to 

waste, 

Jest  a  waitin'  fer  a  poet,  who  has  the  time  an'  taste, 
To   tackle   it  jest  as   it   is,   an'   weave   it   into  rhyme, 
With   warp    an'   woof  of   Hope    an'    Love,    in   Life's  swift   loom   of 

time. 

An',    mebbe  the    futur'   poet,   ef  he   knows  everything, 

Will   not  start  the  summer  katydids  to  singin'   in  the  spring, 

Jest  like  the  croakin  frog  ;  but  let  the  critter  wait  at  most, 

To  announce  to  timid  farmer,  that  "  It's  jest  six  weeks  to  frost." 

The  katydid  an'  goldenrod  are  pardners  in  this  way, 
They   sing  an'    bloom    where'er    there's  room,   along    Life's    sunny 
wav  ; 


THE    RIVER    BEND   AND   OTHER    POEMS. 


So   1   warn  you,  futur1   poet,  jest  let  'em   bloom   an'   lilt 
Together.     Don't  divorce  'em.     That's  jest  the  way  they're  built. 

In  order  to  be  perfect,  the  futur'   poet  should 
Know   everv   sound   of   natur',   of  river,    lake  an'   wood  : 
Should  know  each  whispered  note  an'   every  answerin'  call 
He  should  never  set  cock   pheasants  to  drummin'  in  the  fall 

"  Under  the  golden   maples  !  "     Not   havin'   voice  to   sing. 
They  flap  their  love  out  on  a  log  quite  early  in  the  spring  ; 
For  burnin'   love  will  allus  find  expression   in  some  way 
That's  the  style    they  have    adopted      don't    change  their    natur's. 
pray  ! 

I   cannot  guess  jest  what  the  futur'   poet's  themes  may  be  ; 
Reckon  they'll   be  prettv  lofty,  fer  any  one  can  see 
That  the  world  of  portry's    lookin'   up  an'   poets  climbin'    higher  ; 
With  divine  afflatus  boostin'   'em,  of  course,  they  must  aspire. 

The  poets  of  the  good  old  times  were  cruder  with  the  pen  ; 
Their    idees    wern't  the    same   as    ours     those   good    old-fashioned 

men 

Bet  old   Homer   never  writ,   even   in   his   palmiest  day, 
Such  a  soul-upliftin'   poem  as  "  Hosses  Chawin'   Hay  !  " 

"  Hosses  "   don't   know   no   better,   out   in   the   Hawkeye  State 
Down   to   Bosting,   now.   I   reckon,   they  jest  simply   masticate, 
The  poet  of  the  futur'll   blow  a  bugle,   like  as  not 
Most  all   us   modern   poets  had   to  blow  fer  all   we've  got  : 

To   keep  the  pot  a  bilin'.   we  all   hev   to  raise  a  din. 

To  make  the  public  look  our  way      an'   pass  the  shekels  in. 

The  scarcity  of  bugles  seem   now  the  greatest  lack 

Though   some  of  us  keep  blowin'   'thout  a  bugle  to  our  back  ! 


THE    RIVER    BEND    AND    OTHER    POEMS.  HI 

The  poet  of  the  futur'  !     When   once   he  takes   his  theme, 
His   pen   will   slip  as   smoothly  as  a  canoe  glides  down  a  stream 
He'll   sing  from   overflowin'   heart — his   music   will   be  free- 
Would   you   take   up  a   subscription   for  a  robin   in   a  tree  ? 

He'll   never  try  to   drive  the   Muse,    if  she  doesn't  want  to  go  ; 
But  will    promptly    take    her    harness    off  —  er    drive    keerfully    an' 

slow  — 
When   portry's  forced,  like  winter  pinks,  the  people's  apt  to  know 

it 
An'   labor  with   it  jest  about  as  hard  as  did  the  poet  ! 


CAUSE    AND    EFFECT. 

Cause  and   Effect  went  out  for  a  walk, 

On  a  tour  of  observation, 
And  filled  up  the  time  with  sociable  talk, 

Regarding  their  close  relation. 
A   buzz   saw  was   speeding  in   silence  around. 

Looking  harmless  as  harmless  could  be  — 
It's  buzzing  !  "  said  Cause.     "  It  is  not  !  "   said   Effect, 
"  At  least,   I   am  going  to  see  !  " 
When   whish  !    There's   no   man   who   ever  yet   knew 
What  buzz   saws  or  the   New   Woman   will   do  ! 


A    RIVER     IDVL 


A    RIVER    IDYL. 

How  sweet   it   is,   to   idly  float, 

On   waters  strange,   in   sun   and   dew  ; 
To   hear  the  wild   bird's  joyous  note, 

While  cruising,    in   a  staunch   canoe. 
What  joy  to  follow   Nature's   bent, 

Where  roses  wild,   perfume  the  air  ; 
To   mingle  with   grape  blossoms  scent, 

And  breathe  in   Nature  everywhere  ! 

A  cruise  down  an  unknown  river  is  one  of  the  delights  of 
life  to  one  who  is  in  love  with  Nature  and  wishes  to  court  her 
in  her  various  moods,  for  it  gives  one  an  opportunity  to  get  away 
from  the  busy  haunts  of  men  and  have  a  chance  in  the  quiet  of 
the  woods,  by  great  shadows  of  overhanging  cliffs,  or  on  the 
sweet-voiced  river,  to  think.  How  pleasant  it  is  in  this  busy 
world  to  have  a  week  in  which  to  do  up  your  thinking  for  a 
year. 

In  a  canoe,  you  sit  facing  the  situation,  on  an  air  cushion,  if 
you  like,  while  at  your  back  is  another  cushion,  harder  or  softer 
as  desired,  while  your  feet  are  braced  against  a  foot  rest  at  a 
proper  distance  to  give  you  a  position  of  solidity.  With  a  double 
bladed  paddle,  you  can  send  your  light,  dainty  little  craft  in  any 
direction  you  please,  or  you  can  lay  your  paddle  across  the  coam- 


A    KIVEH    IDYL. 


ing  in  front  of  you  and  let  her  find  her  own  way  down  the 
current,  while  you  read  or  sketch. 

In  answer  to  the  universal  question  asked  by  those  unfamiliar 
with  cruising  canoes :  "  Do  they  upset  easily  ?  "  1  will  say  they 
do  not.  A  skillful  canoeist  is  seldom,  if  ever,  capsized  while 
paddling.  He  sits  low  in  the  canoe  and  balances  himself,  as  it 
were,  by  intuition.  The  paddle,  also,  assists  in  steadying  the 
canoe  in  running  rapids,  or  in  rough  water.  A  canoe  will  live 
in  any  water  which  is  safe  for  a  row  boat  if  the  canoeist  has 
nerve  and  a  fair  amount  of  muscle.  Accidents  will  sometimes 
happen  :  in  which  case  do  not  desert  your  craft.  All  cruising 
canoes  have  air-tight  compartments  which  will  float  you  and  your 
cargo  until  you  can  get  safely  to  shore. 

On  June  IS,  1892,  by  the  kindness  of  W.  H.  Quick,  of  the 
United  States  Express,  a  gentleman  who  was  never  known  to 
forget  a  friend,  and  the  courtesy  of  the  manager  and  officers  of 
the  Minneapolis  &  St.  Louis  Railroad,  Mr.  Walter  Weatherley,  of 
the  canoe,  "  Tumsie,"  and  Tac  Hussey,  of  the  canoe,  "  Dab- 
chick,"  were  kindly  allowed  to  place  their  canoes  in  the  baggage 
car  for  a  run  to  Humboldt.  Iowa,  from  which  point  a  cruise  was 
to  be  made  of  about  two  hundred  miles  down  the  Des  Moines 
River. 

The  country  over  which  this  road  passes  is  very  beautiful  and 
what  with  the  prairies,  with  their  verdure  and  variegated  flowers, 
the  tintings  of  earth  and  sky,  the  promise  of  bountiful  crops,  it 
was  a  panorama  which  could  only  bring  peace  and  contentment 
to  every  heart.  The  road  runs  for  some  distance  along  the  upper 
Des  Moines  and  the  two  canoeists  saw,  with  much  gratification  the 
silver  track,  rippling  and  dancing  in  the  June  sun,  upon  which 
thev  would  soon  be  taking  their  downward  course  home.  The 
destination  reached,  the  canoes,  by  the  kindness  of  the  Russell 
House  proprietors,  were  placed  in  the  sample  room,  which  is  on 
the  ground  floor.  The  canoe  tents  were  put  in  place,  the  cush 
ions  and  air  pillows  blown  up  and  left  to  the  inspection  of  the 


A    RIVER    IDYL.  1S7 


public,  and  of  which  privilege  many  ladies  and  gentlemen 
promptly  availed  themselves.  1  wish  to  say  a  good  word  here 
for  the  boys  of  Humboldt.  The  rooms  were  left  open  all  the 
afternoon,  and  there  were  a  great  many  boy  visitors,  who  asked 
many  questions,  which  were  courteously  answered.  They  han 
dled  nothing,  and  not  so  much  as  a  piece  of  cord  was  missing. 
On  coming  back  to  see  if  all  was  right  after  a  short  walk  about 
town,  I  found  a  little  four  or  five-year-old  girl  snugly  ensconced 
in  my  canoe,  sitting  in  state  on  the  cushions,  her  little  head 
against  the  cushioned  back-board.  She  explained,  on  being  dis 
covered,  as  she  looked  up  trustingly,  that  she  was  "  taking  a 
little  boat  yide,"  and  she  was  left  in  full  command.  How  far 
she  sailed,  or  how  long  she  continued  her  imaginary  cruise,  1 
know  not. 

The  citizens  of  Humboldt  are  a  very  genial,  social  people,  and 
we  got  all  the  necessary  information  in  regard  to  river  and  dams. 
Mr.  Joseph  McCauley,  especially,  gave  some  good  pointers  on 
fishing,  as  he  is  the  champion  fisherman  of  that  section. 

On  Thursday  morning,  after  all  needed  supplies  were  purchased, 
the  canoes  were  sent  to  the  west  branch  of  the  river,  near  the 
creamery.  Quite  an  interest  was  excited  in  seeing  the  dainty 
little  crafts  loaded.  Each  one  had  a  cargo  of  at  least  seventy-five 
pounds,  and  it  seemed  to  puzzle  the  onlookers  to  know  where  it 
was  all  to  be  stowed  and  yet  leave  room  for  the  crews.  One  gen 
tleman  begged  that  we  would  not  start  until  he  had  assembled  his 
family  on  the  bridge  to  see  the  departure.  All  the  "  duffle,"  as 
canoeists  term  it,  was  safely  stowed  so  as  to  trim,  the  painters 
were  loosed,  and,  with  the  crews  aboard,  the  canoes  shot  down 
the  swift  current  with  only  an  occasional  stroke  of  the  paddle  to 
guide.  Good-byes  were  said,  hands  and  handkerchiefs  were 
waived,  as  the  bridge  was  passed  and  the  rapid  current  soon 
bore  us  out  on  the  two  hundred  mile  cruise  homeward. 

How  beautiful  is  this  west  branch  of  the  Des  Moines  !  Nar 
row,  swift,  bounded  by  high,  rocky  shores,  and  running  over  a 


158  A    HIVEH    IDYL. 


rough,  rocky  bed,  full  of  rapids,  the  roar  of  which  could  be 
heard  for  a  mile.  The  scenery  is  wild  and  picturesque,  sometimes 
a  rocky  cliff,  sometimes  a  spreading,  rocky  beach,  covered  with 
trees,  vine  clad,  and  wild  roses  everywhere.  Some  of  the  rapids 
were  a  fourth  of  a  mile  long,  and  the  turbulent  waters  tossed 
the  plunging  canoes  like  corks,  now  dipping  their  noses  under 
water  and  throwing  the  spray  high  in  the  air  as  they  rose  from 
the  plunge.  It  is  estimated  that  these  rapids  run  at  the  rate  of 
eight  miles  an  hour,  and  the  shooting  of  them  would  be  a  dan 
gerous  experiment  in  a  time  of  low  water. 

There  is  nothing  in  canoeing  so  exhiliarating  as  shooting  a 
rapid.  The  nerves  must  be  steady,  the  eye  quick  and  the  hand 
ready.  As  a  general  thing,  a  canoe  will  find  her  way,  but  she 
must  be  kept  "  head  on."  for  in  striking  a  rock  sidewise,  the 
force  of  the  current  would  capsize  you  in  much  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  tell  it.  There  are  probably  twenty-five  of  these  rapids, 
large  and  small,  including  broken  dams,  between  Humboldt  and 
Fort  Dodge,  none  of  which  are  dangerous  except  in  a  low  stage 
of  water. 

The  west  and  east  branches  of  the  river  form  a  junction  about 
nine  miles  below  Humboldt  and  it  becomes  wider,  yet  by  no 
means  less  wild.  The  forests  become  more  dense,  the  rocky 
cliffs  higher,  and  the  river,  in  some  places,  looks  as  if  it  had 
cut  its  channel  through  solid  rock.  Nature  is  a  tireless  worker 
and  a  few  thousand  years  makes  no  especial  difference  to  her  in 
the  completion  of  a  piece  of  handiwork.  Boulders,  weighing  many 
tons,  are  to  be  found  in  the  channel,  around  and  over  which  the 
waters  rush  and  roar.  Occasionally  a  large  piece  of  the  cliff  has 
become  detached  and  falling  into  the  channel  would  form  an 
obstruction  over  which  the  angry  water  would  surge  and  hiss, 
forming  miniature  whirpools,  beating  the  water  into  a  white  foam. 

When  the  water  becomes  clear  the  upper  part  of  this  river 
will  be  a  paradise  to  fishermen.  A  few  casts  of  an  artificial  fly 
were  rewarded  by  a  fine,  three-pound,  wall-eyed  pike,  which 


A    RIVER    IDYL.  159 


made  an  excellent  dinner  for  two,  with  something  to  spare.  Later 
in  the  day,  some  bass  were  taken,  and  in  the  evening,  a  three 
and  a  half  pound  pickerel  was  caught  on  a  Buel  spinning  bait. 
As  the  cast  was  made  from  a  high  rock,  he  had  to  be  tired  out 
before  he  could  be  landed  at  a  point  considerably  above,  where 
a  shelving  rock  reached  down  to  the  water's  edge.  He  made 
several  high  leaps  in  his  fight  for  liberty,  but  as  he  was  firmly 
hooked,  a  springy  rod  did  the  rest. 

The  encampment  was  made  that  night  in  a  very  pretty  spot, 
opposite  a  high  bluff.  A  cold  stream  ran  out  of  the  hill  into  the 
river  and  made  a  handy  place  to  stow  our  milk  and  butter  after 
the  evening  meal  had  been  cooked  and  eaten.  A  farm  house 
near  at  hand  supplied  the  milk  for  a  small  consideration  and  the 
two  voyagers  were  happy.  The  canoes  were  "  shored  up,"  that 
is,  they  were  placed  on  an  even  keel  in  a  level  spot  on  the 
bank  and  sticks  of  right  length  were  placed  under  the  beading 
to  hold  them  in  that  position,  a  quantity  of  feathery  willow 
leaves  and  twigs  were  strewn  in  the  bottom,  over  which  rubber 
blankets  were  spread,  then  the  cushions  were  placed  thereon,  the 
air  pillows  blown  up,  the  under  and  upper  woolen  blankets  were 
put  in  position,  the  canoe  tents  hung  on  the  two  masts  and  but 
toned  down  on  the  sides  of  the  canoes,  a  mosquito  bar  thrown 
over  each  door  to  guard  against  unwelcome  visitors  and  climbing 
in  they  went  to  sleep  amid  the  perfume  of  wild  grape  blossoms, 
wild  roses,  and  the  music  of  the  whip-poor-wills. 

Did  you  ever  hear  one  of  these  birds  sing  within  a  few  yards 
of  you  ?  They  make  a  peculiar  little  noise  before  beginning  their 
song  which  I  can  only  liken  to  the  whirring  of  a  clock  before 
it  strikes,  after  which  they  repeat  their  song  from  ten  to  eighty- 
five  times,  by  actual  count.  Then,  after  a  few  seconds'  rest,  the 
whirring  sound  is  again  made  and  the  song  proceeds.  Many 
people  regard  the  song  as  a  mournful  or  sorrowful  one.  To  me, 
it  is  one  of  the  pleasantest,  on  account  of  its  plaintive  earnest 
ness  and  general  desire  to  be  social. 


160  A    KIVEK    IDYL. 


Next  morning  we  were  awakened  at  day  light  by  the  snort- 
ings  of  a  frightened  horse.  He  had  evidently  come  down  to  the 
river's  bank  to  drink,  and  seeing  the  canoe  tents  in  the  uncertain 
light  of  early  morning  became  so  affrighted  that  he  plunged  into 
the  river  and  swam  for  dear  life  to  the  other  side,  giving  a  fare 
well  snort  as  he  clambered  up  the  rocky  bank  and  disappeared 
in  the  woods.  An  hour  after,  the  coffee  was  boiling,  the  bacon 
was  frying  and  a  hearty  breakfast  was  made,  preparatory  to  a 
start  on  the  downward  course.  A  fog  veiled  the  river  until  nine 
o'clock,  while  the  high  bluffs  and  forest  trees  were  lightly  kissed 
bv  the  sun,  turning  them  to  burnished  silver. 

The  river,  as  Fort  Dodge  is  approached,  is  very  wild  ;  rocky, 
with  high  cliffs,  from  which  the  wild  grape  vine  clings  and  the 
wild  rose  blooms  in  every  available  place.  Large  bouquets  were 
gathered  and  placed  in  the  forward  mast  tubes  where  they  shed 
a  grateful  fragrance  and  delighted  the  eye  at  short  range.  The 
wild  rose  is  one  of  the  wild-wood  beauties  which  appeal  to  the 
human  heart.  They  seem  to  take  delight  in  making  glad  the 
desert  and  waste  places.  Sometimes  they  were  found  growing  from 
between  clefts  of  rock  where  there  seemed  to  be  no  soil  or  sup 
port,  and  yet  they  clung  and  bloomed  sweetly  in  the  face  of  all 
difficulties,  whether  the  eye  of  man  ever  enjoyed  their  beauty  and 
fragrance  or  not.  In  the  morning,  they  are  a  beautiful,  bright 
pink  ;  at  noon,  a  lighter  pink,  and  at  evening,  the  leaves  are 
blanched  and  ready  to  fall  a  life  of  beauty  and  fragrance  for 
only  one  day.  No  one  will  deny  that  they  perform  God's  mis 
sion  well,  in  seen  and  unseen  spots.  Is  not  this  a  lesson  to 
mortals,  that  wherever  their  lots  are  cast,  the  perfume  of  their 
lives  in  good  words  and  works  may  ever  be  ready  to  cheer  the 
passer-by  on  the  journey  of  life  ? 

A  steady  roar  far  down  the  stream  told  us  that  we  were 
approaching  a  dam  or  rapids.  It  proved  to  be  the  ruins  of  a  dam 
a  few  miles  above  Fort  Dodge.  Some  workmen  who  were  quar 
rying  rock  shouted  to  us  to  go  to  the  other  side,  where  there 


A    RIVER    IDYL.  161 


was  less  fall,  but  we  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  change  our 
course,  so  our  staunch  little  crafts  plunged  over  the  three  feet  fall, 
burying  their  noses  in  the  foam,  but  shipping  not  a  drop  of  water 
as  they  dashed  down  the  cataract  like  mad,  to  the  amazement 
of  the  onlookers,  who,  no  doubt,  supposed  the  little  crafts  would 
be  swamped. 

Sometimes  there  would  be  quite  a  long  stretch  of  river  with  a 
sharp  turn  to  right  or  left,  and  from  a  distance  it  would  look  as 
if  the  stream  terminated  then  and  there,  but  on  approaching  the 
bend,  the  way  would  be  unfolded  as  if  by  magic  and  the  course 
made  plain.  1  could  not  help  thinking  how  much  it  resembled, 
in  this  respect,  the  stream  of  life,  down  which  all  are  cruising, 
some  listlessly,  some  thoughtfully,  and  some  beset  with  fears 
within  and  without.  There  come  times  in  many  lives  when  the 
way  seems  shut  up,  when  the  sky  overhead  is  as  brass  and  the 
dew  of  heaven  falls  not.  Yet  they  who  go  forward  hopefully, 
cheerfully  and  trustfully  will  ever  find  a  way  for  their  goings. 

Fort  Dodge  was  reached  about  nine  o'clock.  A  rumor  had 
been  started  in  some  way  that  two  Indians  were  coming  down 
the  river  in  canoes,  and  quite  a  company  had  assembled  near 
Heath's  oat  meal  mill  to  see  the  sight.  By  some  miscalculation 
or  inattention  to  business,  I  allowed  my  canoe  to  drift  on  a  sand 
bar  and  had  the  humiliating  privilege  of  taking  off  my  shoes  and 
stockings  and  towing  her  to  deeper  water.  A  landing  was  made 
at  the  wagon  bridge,  and  the  first  man  to  greet  us  was  our  old 
townsman,  H.  R.  Heath.  Two  hours  were  spent  in  getting  some 
supplies  and  looking  over  Heath's  magnificent  oat  meal  mill, 
which  is  the  pride  of  Fort  Dodge,  and  calling  on  a  few  acquaint 
ances. 

Fort  Dodge  is  a  pretty,  thriving  little  town,  with  abundant 
material  for  every  kind  of  a  factory.  You  can  find  anything  here, 
from  limestone  rock  to  material  from  which  to  make  a  "  Cardiff 
Giant."  Adjutant  General  Baker  once  explained  the  formation  of 
this  wonderfully  diversified  region  by  saying  that  "  when  the 


162  A    RIVEK    IDYL. 


Lord  finished  making  the  earth.*  He  had  a  few  odds  and  ends 
of  all  kinds  left  over,  so  they  were  dumped  out  at  Fort  Dodge." 

Again  on  board,  the  canoes  were  allowed  to  drift  down  the 
swift  current,  while  the  canoeists  lay  back  on  the  cushions  with 
sighs  of  calm  enjoyment.  For  miles  the  river  has  sloping,  grassy 
banks,  strewn,  here  and  there,  with  boulders.  Amid  stream,  great 
rocks  lay,  partially  submerged,  around  which  the  current  rushed 
in  many  circling  eddies.  Some  of  them  were  eight  or  ten  feet  in 
diameter,  the  relics  of  the  glacier  period,  when  mountains  of  ice, 
thousands  of  feet  thick,  ground  mountains  of  rock  into  boulders 
as  they  moved  on  their  way  south  at  the  rate  of  four  or  five 
inches  a  day  during  the  millions  of  years  the  earth  was  being 
prepared  as  a  battle  ground  for  wealth  and  preferment  for  ever 
greedy  man. 

Everywhere,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  journey, 
was  displayed  the  wonderful  power  of  water.  Thousands  of  for 
est  trees  were  uprooted  and  seemed  as  straws  when  the  flood 
was  at  its  height,  as  they  were  undermined  and  laid  in  rows 
where  the  river  made  a  sharp  turn  and  rushed  across  to  the  next 
bend.  Sometimes  the  flood  became  humorous  and  played  fanciful 
tricks  with  drift  wood  and  debris.  At  the  top  of  an  immense 
drift,  at  one  of  the  bends,  a  small  tree  was  lodged  which  drooped 
gracefully  twenty  feet  above  the  water.  Upon  this  tree  was  a 
kitchen  chair,  in  its  natural  position,  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the 
bree/e.  It  is  estimated  that  to  have  placed  that  pile  of  drift 
wood  in  position  and  crowned  its  summit  with  a  chair,  so  airily 
poised,  would  have  cost  a  gang  of  men  a  week's  work  and 
more  profanity  than  to  have  put  up  a  twelve-jointed  stove  pipe 
in  the  presence  of  a  suggestive  wife  ! 

A  camp  that  night  was  made  on  an  island.  It  was  also 
strewn  with  debris.  The  nail  kegs  found  there  made  a  beautiful 
camp  fire,  but  the  cart  wheel,  horse  collar  and  boy's  wool  hat 
could  not  be  utili/ed.  We  slept  the  sleep  of  the  tired  that  night, 
to  the  music  of  the  water  on  all  sides  and  the  never  failing 


A    RIVER    IDYL. 


whip-poor-will  on  either  shore,  enhanced,  no  doubt,  by  a  thorough 
bath  from  one  of  the  pebbly  shores.  Mosquitos  were  very  numer 
ous  in  the  woods  and  on  the  river,  but  when  the  canoe  tents 
were  in  position,  closely  buttoned  down  to  the  sides  of  the  canoes 
and  the  netting  hung  across  the  doors,  the  mosquitos  were  not 
in  it  with  us. 

There  is  not,  to  a  hungry  man,  a  more  appetizing  smell  than 
that  which  comes  from  boiling  coffee  and  frying  bacon.  When  it 
is  done  crisp  and  brown,  break  your  eggs  and  cook  them  slowly, 
turn  them,  if  you  like  them  that  way,  and  with  brown  bread 
and  butter,  you  have  a  breakfast  fit  for  a  king.  1  am  sure  you 
are  anxious  to  know  how  the  coffee  was  settled.  There  was  no 
settling  to  do.  Small  bags  of  cheese  cloth  were  provided  by  a 
thoughtful  wife,  and  the  water  was  put  on  cold,  with  the  proper 
amount  of  coffee  in  the  little  sack,  and  that  was  all  there  was 
to  it.  When  it  came  to  a  boil,  it  was  set  on  another  part  of  the 
fire  to  simmer  gently  until  everything  else  was  ready  to  serve  up. 
The  washing  of  the  frying  pan  has  always  been  looked  upon  as 
an  irksome  task.  In  camp,  it  was  a  pleasure.  So  soon  as  the 
frying  is  done,  fill  the  frying  pan  with  clean,  dry  sand  and  let 
if  stand  until  the  meal  is  finished.  The  sand  has,  by  that  time, 
absorbed  all  the  grease  and  a  vigorous  rubbing  with  a  dry  rag 
and  fine  sand  will  make  it  shine  like  a  mirror  and  remove  every 
particle  of  unpleasant  odor.  Tin  plates,  knives,  forks  and  spoons 
will  yield  to  the  same  kind  of  treatment,  except  that  the  applica 
tion  need  not  be  so  vigorously  applied. 

Canoes  launched,  loaded  and  we  are  on  the  wing  again. 
Lehigh  was  touched  long  enough  to  get  some  supplies  and  chat 
with  the  many  people  who  came  to  see  the  canoes  and  to  ask 
about  our  starting  point,  destination,  and  whether  we  were  "  doing 
it  for  fun."  There  was  one  question  which  was  universally 
asked  :  "  What  do  such  boats  cost  ?  "  Our  invariable  reply 
was,  "  one  hundred  dollars,  fully  rigged  for  sailing,  paddling  or 
cruising." 


164  A    RIVER    IDYL. 


We  were  off  again,  leisurely  paddling  down,  on  the  alert  for 
a  good  camping  place.  As  the  skv  was  clear  and  no  sign  of  a 
thunder  storm  in  the  air,  a  dense  forest  was  chosen,  near  a 
deserted  house.  Supper  eaten,  tents  were  being  put  over  the 
canoes,  preparatory  to  turning  in  as  soon  as  darkness  appeared, 
when  a  faint  sound  came  from  far  down  the  river,  coming  nearer, 
and  anon  fading  away  in  the  distance.  As  the  sound  came  nearer, 
it  was  discovered  to  be  a  small  pack  of  fox  hounds  in  full  cry. 
Their  owner,  who  came  near  us,  explained  that  his  hounds  had 
struck  the  trail  of  a  wolf,  as  it  was  supposed,  but  he  had  taken 
them  from  the  trail,  as  the  fur  was  worthless  at  this  time  of 
year.  On  account  of  the  flood  driving  these  animals  to  the  high 
lands,  he  4iad  caught  seven  in  the  last  two  months.  While  the 
sport  may  be  considered  somewhat  questionable  by  many  people, 
it  would  be  hard  to  convince  any  one  who  has  ever  "  followed 
the  hounds "  that  it  is  not  the  most  exhilarating  music  in  the 
world.  The  only  gun  in  camp  was  double  shotted  that  night. 
Camp  axes  were  placed  in  easy  reach  and  the  canoeists  slept  on 
their  arms,  so  to  speak. 

Passing  the  mouth  of  the  Boone  River,  we  asked  a  man  who 
was  herding  cattle  some  questions  in  regard  to  the  locality,  which 
he  answered  very  politely,  after  which  he  whipped  up  his  mule 
and  rode  down  the  river  bank  at  a  rate  of  speed  usually  acquired 
bv  those  "  going  for  a  doctor "  in  an  urgent  case.  The  cause 
of  his  rapid  riding  was  made  apparent  at  the  next  bend  of  the 
river,  for  he  had  marshaled  his  wife,  children  and  mother,  to  the 
river  bank  to  see  us  pass.  The  canoes  were  pulled  up  close  to 
the  shore  for  their  inspection  and  every  question  answered  in 
detail,  and  when  we  bade  them  a  pleasant  good  day,  they 
watched  us  until  the  bend  of  the  river  hid  us  from  view. 

During  the  day,  we  passed  a  beautiful,  rocky  cliff  of  perhaps 
a  mile  in  length,  in  the  shelter  ot  which,  grouped  in  neighbor 
hoods,  were  the  nests  of  hundreds  of  cliff  swallows.  These  nests 
are  built  of  mud,  of  a  peculiar  kind  of  soil,  which  seems  to 


A    RIVEH    IDYL.  16S 


adhere  to  the  overhanging  rock  in  so  solid  a  way  as  to  bear  the 
burden  of  its  own  weight,  the  mother  and  young  birds.  The 
nests  are  built  somewhat  round,  suggestive  of  a  jug,  the  neck  of 
which  turns  slightly  down,  the  better  to  keep  out  the  falling 
rain.  It  would  puzzle  a  boy  or  a  girl,  I  think,  to  make  so  com 
plete  a  house  as  these  patient  birds  have  made  without  hands 
and  to  group  them  so  artistically  as  they  were  here  placed.  I 
paddled  my  canoe  within  a  few  feet  of  their  nests  and  the  colo 
nists,  as  they  were  approached,  came  out  in  great  swarms,  tilling 
the  air  with  their  alarmed  twitterings.  It  is  likely  this  was  the 
first  time  during  nesting  season  they  had  been  disturbed,  as  the 
river  side  of  the  cliffs  was  inaccessible  except  by  boat. 

We  intended  lying  still  in  camp  all  day  Sunday,  but  our  sup 
ply  of  ice  became  exhausted,  and  we  concluded  to  drop  down, 
quietly,  to  Moingona  for  more.  It  had  been  a  source  of  amuse 
ment  to  ask  of  fishermen  and  others  the  distance  to  the  next 
bridge,  town  or  railroad,  in  order  to  hear  their  widely  different 
answers.  The  most  truthful  answer,  probably,  was  given  by  a 
grave  individual  who  was  indulging  in  a  Sunday  fish  on  a  shady 
bank.  I  asked,  "  Can  you  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to  Moingona  ?  " 
He  cleared  his  throat  as  he  thoughtfully  answered,  "  Damfino." 
We  passed. 

Moingona  was  reached,  but  not  a  pound  of  ice  could  be  had, 
so  we  went  into  camp  a  short  distance  below  to  spend  the  day 
quietly.  A  storm  of  wind  and  rain  broke  upon  us  at  six  o'clock, 
but  being  well  protected  by  our  tents  we  enjoyed  the  grateful 
change  of  temperature.  Soon  after,  a  beautiful  rainbow  made  its 
appearance,  and  if  such  a  phenomenon  occurred  only  once  in  a 
hundred  years  and  had  been  well  advertised,  it  would  have  had 
an  audience  of  the  best  and  most  scientific  people  of  the  old  and 
new  world. 

While  there  are  many  beautiful  things  in  nature,  there  are 
occasional  tragedies  in  the  animal  and  reptile  kingdoms  that  sel 
dom  fall  under  the  observation.  On  an  island,  far  up  the  river, 


166  A    RIVER    IDYL. 


there  hangs  by  the  neck,  in  the  narrow  forks  of  a  willow  tree, 
eighteen  feet  above  the  present  river  surface,  a  large  turtle.  How 
did  he  get  there  ?  The  explanation  is  easy.  While  swimming 
down  a  swift  current  his  head  was  caught  in  the  forks  of  a 
willow,  and,  slipping  down  to  the  narrower  part  as  he  struggled 
for  freedom,  was  held  as  by  a  vise.  Turtles  are  very  tenacious 
of  life.  Perhaps  he  lived  for  days,  and,  as  the  waters  receded, 
he  hung  high  and  dry. 

It  was  only  by  chance,  a  yearling  calf  was  discovered,  entangled 
in  some  roots  at  a  precipitous  bank  where  it  had  fallen.  Its  pit 
iable  condition  excited  our  sympathy,  and  after  a  little  time  it 
was  disentangled  and  urged  down  the  river  where  the  bank  was 
less  precipitous  and  where,  after  several  efforts,  it  got  safely  upon 
solid  ground. 

On  Monday  morning,  we  rose  with  the  lark,  as  High  Bridge 
was  to  be  reached  at  three  o'clock.  We  were  delayed  until  nine 
o'clock  in  starting.  Mr.  Weatherly,  in  trying  to  get  some  water 
for  the  coffee,  trusted  to  some  roots  projecting  over  the  river  bank, 
but  they  proved  to  be  rotten  and  he  fell  in  twelve  feet  of  water, 
very  pluckily  holding  on  to  the  coffee  pot.  I  ran  to  his  assist 
ance,  rescuing  the  coffee  pot,  while  he,  "  grabbing  a  root,"  and 
dripping  with  coolness,  scrambled  out,  laughing  heartily.  There 
was  no  change  of  clothing  in  camp,  so  there  was  only  one  thing 
for  him  to  do  wring  out  the  wet  garments,  hang  them  on  a 
line  in  the  sun.  and  array  himself  in  a  big  blanket.  In  consid 
eration  of  his  moist  condition,  breakfast  was  served  in  the  broiling 
hot  sun. 

Off  at  last  for  an  easy  day's  work  of  thirty-five  miles.  The 
river  had  become  more  common-place,  and  yet  there  were  some 
beautiful  forests,  rocks  and  bluffs.  The  wildness  began  to  wane 
after  Moingona  is  passed  and  instead  of  rocky  banks,  mud  is 
the  general  character  of  all  landings. 

The  bluffs  of  High  Bridge  were  seen  about  three  o'clock  and 
half  an  hour  later,  our  canoes  were  resting  under  the  sugar  maple 


A    RIVER    IDYL.  167 


trees  of  that  picturesque  spot.  The  ground  was  strewn  with  bro 
ken  bottles,  playing  cards  and  filth  of  all  kinds,  and  it  needed 
not  any  description  of  the  Sunday  picnic  to  designate  its  charac 
teristics  the  day  previous  to  our  arrival. 

It  seems  too  bad  that  so  beautiful  a  spot  should  be  given 
over  to  such  a  debauch  and  Sabbath  desecration.  Being  hungry 
for  news,  not  having  seen  a  Des  Moines  paper  for  some  days,  a 
search  was  made  in  the  hope  that  some  of  the  fragments  might 
be  found  to  give  a  little  home  news.  I  succeeded  in  finding  half 
a  Register,  well  stained  with  what  might  have  been  iced  tea,  a 
fragment  of  beer-stained  Leader,  and  an  Iowa  Capital  complete, 
well  frescoed  with  custard  pie.  With  these  a  very  pleasant  hour 
was  passed. 

A  storm  of  wind  and  rain  caught  us  here,  and  it  was  one  of 
the  most  blissful  experiences  of  the  cruise  to  lie  snugly  in  our 
cozy  little  nests  and  hear  the  rain  patter  within  a  few  feet  of 
our  faces. 

High  Bridge  is  a  pretty  spot.  It  is  about  as  pretty  as  nature 
can  make  it.  A  new  steel  bridge  is  soon  to  take  the  place  of 
the  present  one,  which  will  much  enhance  its  beauty  and  grand 
eur. 

A  hearty  breakfast  was  eaten  about  ten  o'clock  and  prepara 
tions  for  the  last  day's  run  was  made.  The  rain  still  continued 
at  intervals  after  the  start,  but  with  the  deck  hatches  and  rubber 
blankets  in  place,  it  mattered  but  little. 

The  famous  Willow  Spring,  at  Corydon  bridge,  was  a  welcome 
sight  ;  for  no  thirsty  one  ever  drinks  of  the  water  there  but 
remembers  its  sweetness  and  purity  ever  after.  The  water  is  free 
to  every  passer  by  and  the  spring  was  never  known  to  fail. 

From  Corydon  bridge,  it  is  an  easy  journey  to  Des  Moines. 
Soon  the  river  became  more  familiar.  Lawson  saw  mill,  mouth 
of  Beaver,  McClelland's  mill,  Nourse's  farm,  and  now  soon  the 
capital  dome,  lighted  up  by  the  setting  sun  of  the  longest  day  in 
the  year,  tells  of  the  cruise  so  nearly  and  happily  ended,  And 


168  A    RIVEH    IDYL. 


now,  rounding  Thompson's  bend,  a  portion  of  the  city  bursts  on 
our  sight  in  the  rays  of  the  departing  god  of  day.  Home  and 
friends  !  The  canoes  are  placed  in  their  accustomed  brackets  and 
we  tread  the  noisy  streets  ten  times  more  noisy  by  contrast 
with  a  week  of  quietness,  yet  with  a  happiness  that  even  a 
knowledge  of  accumulated  work  piled  up  before  us  cannot  take 
out  of  our  hearts. 


DATE  DUE 


POINTED  INU.t.A. 


UU41U 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILf 


A  A      000320317 


